



i 


i t I 



t 






« 

i 






gpr:-} -py.' 


LmSTitI 


'.:7LT,'ilU?.' 


M 'Jri > : ;i;i; 


,J r 


: L-;-- 


' -m UW ‘ ' ^ ' *^,1] i' ' •— I ‘ ' — 

^1 1 fer : ■ iF] a;-! 






r^;-V 




-It 


Ji] 


:‘r_i, ' 


-r 


^.j 






1-fi 


«» i Ve* .. 




U. 


[Hrl' 


fiiv 


t-: 


1 v- 


Ik-r 


,L^ 


(Fj 




i < k — # W- 


r-:. 


'H' 


■ill 




Tii r: 

• rr'-j’ ^ -in htF- , 

^ -, J [T-i lliFr ■ , . 


K- 


r:J 


{^;c I 


Lr^l 


T-i 


) .- - 


■ : ' 


:v*.i 


r '. 'j I 


O' 


,-nLrr.; 




-t't- 

■/-OTr-*--. - 

' j I ; uF = ■ 

■‘;-iJ:p i LnvF-T i 


# 2 i J . - i ,- » • .^-. ^ i . • " ” H' 1 i • »* *" ■" S 1 * F 

L-I"’. , 4 ;; ^ : ir- *Fp ,.4 ^ 4 ' : 

r-F --■» fr-oF ' ^ ' -'■--^ ’ M • -V : ;•"--- 

to -t .. '--{}■ (-^— '. l—^ • - -s : -1 < • - , -^-r- 1 1 i r ‘ — . — I . 


iiV’’- 


.4 . j ro. ‘ 1- 

, I w 

.. ( '._ I ,-.^rr,.. 


I---' 


Ivtl 


it] 


Snil' 


; » I 


*T ' 


i:- 


'^r.- 


:i: 


■ir: 


, -irii 








rH- 


i.'j I 


, ; -,X,^^ ^ I-., 1.. 

J .-i '’.-^ vO* 1 5 }'’. •■ ^-*-4 i 




: *. ■’ 


i*r 






7 


* f 


- 

i 


I. 


. « 

r- * 



h 

« 


< 


t 



% 



1 













• I 

* , 

k I 




I 


N 






r * 


4 

^ 









ifH 


\ 


f* 


• . '’i 


Y ^ 

I t 

^ 

0 I 





« 

. • V 


I *^; 



• • 




f 


I 


4 « 

ft 


" r 


f 




It 



X 


% 




4 


% 


i 


r 


y 




1 ♦ 


i 

4 


I 


\ 


,s 



«r 




• ’ 


A • 

> X 


/ 



■* k. . 

M r 


.*> .jr-. 






I 



^ 4 


» 


I 


4 


% 


I 



I'. 


I 




#4 


t 


«• 

4 



« 


I 






4 










■■ r •§ ^ 



V ■ ' ■ ' - ^ jL \ V X. ■^' J' '.^ 

■Jr-*' y . •" -• * > 

M J ' v - p .‘ . ; T 

-’y >>. , rTfa* V • . • • .«> 

-. V » * - * i-i* A,/ ■ ~ 


*»-• 


-V, ^ 


•» ^ 




ni 


PV 


- • r 


e. 


» 


’ k< ■ “* iy ” 


» ■ ■ • . 

,*.• -, w* •■.. 

■•..V r.y . : 


.» 

«♦ 


r '.X. > 

^ I 4 ..'- 




W » ' 


l> »*' 


- • ' ^ . • 


# • 




6 






A 




V- ( , 

/ 

/^ ^ ^6 <-. ^ 


i U<L^ 






u 


RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE 


7^C*G^ ol ^, 





i-t. 



BY 

(jiavts'^tY.^J 

CLARA, LANZA 

A II 


AUTHOR OF “MR. PERKINS’ DAUGHTER,” ETC. 


NEW YORK 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

27 AND 29 WEST 23D STREET 

1883 


) ) ^ 


» » 


TZs 

L297 

7? 

<^yz 


Copyright, 

By G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, 
1883. 


486555 
AUG 2 7 t942 


I 

JBctiicate IJi'g ISook 

TO MY 

MOTHER. 


. \ 



CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. The H^iricourts • . . . i 

II. The Lost Money lo 

III. Poor Relations 15 

IV. Padre Lamont 23 

V. A Conspiracy 31 

VI. Persuaded 42 

VII. The Whip-Hand 50 

VIII. The Departure 58 

IX. Our Lady of Guadaloupe 64 

X. Mrs. Aldergrove’s Suggestion .... 74 

XL Professor Hoveden is troubled . . .80 

XII. Margaret does her Duty 86 

XIII. Where is Mrs. Aldergrove? 93 

XIV. Broken Fetters 104 

XV. An Interview 117 

XVI. Cordelia Considers 134 

XVII. Christian Gratitude 139 

XVIII. The Superior 152 

XIX. Bill Taylor speaks 163 

XX. A Mystery 174 

XXL Cordelia makes a Discovery 182 

XXII. Mrs. Aldergrove under a New Aspect . . 192 

XXIII. Castaly .201 


XXIV. Mother and Daughter . . . . . 21 1 


V 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

XXV. Professor Hoveden is troubled again . . .222 

XXVI. Cordelia tells her Story 233 

XXVII. Elfrida ^ . . . 245 

XXVIII. A Little Later 257 

XXIX. A Meeting 262 

XXX, A Light breaks upon Cordelia .... 277 

XXXI. Perplexity ; 286 

XXXII. Parted 294 

XXXIII. A Means to the End 305 

XXXIV. An Unexpected Encounter 315 

XXXV. A Piece of Startling Intelligence .... 328 

XXXVI. Suspense 340 

XXXVII. The Trial 348 

XXXVIII. The Verdict . . ' 366 

XXXIX. Disagreeable Truths* . ' . . . . . . 383 

XL. Margaret sees Ghosts 395 

XLI. Daybreak . ’ . . . ’ 408 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE HERICOURTS. 

“The Hottentots will neither reason nor think. ‘Thought,’ say they, ‘is the 
scourge of life.’ How many Hottentots are there among us! ” — Helyetius. 

In the ancient city of Santa Fe, and in a room of a 
house occupied by the United-States Government as offi- 
cers’ quarters, sat two ladies dressed in deep mourning. 
They were auat and niece ; but so different were they in 
features and general appearance, that no one unacquainted 
with the relationship would have supposed them to be 
members of the same family. 

Miss Anastasia Hericourt, the elder of the two, was 
apparently about forty years of age. In reality she was 
fifty. As she possessed, however, that particular type of 
organization called the lymphatic, of which the three f's, 
fair, fat, and forty, are so apt to be distinguishing charac- 
teristics, she passed for much more than she was worth in 
the matter of youth. She was of medium height, and 
rather inclined to embonpomt. Her face was by no means 
a plain one, but it was not altogether pleasant. This was 
not owing to any positively disagreeable feature or expres- 
sion, but rather to the fact that every trait was decidedly 
negative in character. Her countenance, indeed, pre- 


2 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


sented so marked an aspect of vacuity, that, had words of 
the most profound wisdom flowed from her lips, an acute 
observer would not have been impressed with a high sense 
of her mental qualities. We do not impute much intelli- 
gence to a parrot, even though he utter the proverbs of 
Solomon. Miss Hericourt in some respects resembled a 
parrot. Her face showed plainly that she preferred to 
rely upon others for judgment than to act for herself. It 
did not indicate absolute servility, but doubt and inde- 
cision were its prevailing influences. It was wanting also 
in those strong and positive points usually to be seen 
upon the faces of spinsters who have reached the age 
of fifty ; and, indeed, the truth must be confessed. Miss 
Hericourt never thought for herself upon any subject if 
she could help doing so. She constantly sought advice, 
and was always ready to accord with the views of those 
who, from the force of circumstances or the assumption of 
authority, undertook to tell her what she was to do. When 
thus admonished, she would act in strict accordance with 
the counsel received, so far as her not very vigorous mind 
would permit her. If she had any emotions, she kept 
them well in the background ; for they were rarely dis- 
played. Not that she exercised any special self-control, 
but rather because they were hardly forcible enough to 
ripple the placid surface of pink-and-white skin beneath 
which her muscles of expression were supposed to lie. 
The black dress she wore, unrelieved even by a white 
collar and cuffs, caused her still excellent complexion to 
appear to advantage ; and as she sat with her round, fat 
hands folded demurely in her lap, her lips slightly parted, 
and her expressionless, pale blue eyes gazing fixedly at 
vacancy, she reminded one more of a piece of Dresden 
china decorated outside the Royal Factory than of a flesh- 
and-blood woman. 

Cordelia Hericourt, her niece, was as unlike her aunt in 


THE H^EICOUETS. 


3 


every respect as it was possible to be. She was tall and 
slender ; but there was nothing sharp or angular, either in 
her clear-cut features or well-rounded form. Perhaps her 
large gray eyes were a little too deeply set to be really 
beautiful ; but this very fact gave a certain dignity and 
thoughtfulness to her face which nothing else, probably, 
could have supplied. They were eyes, not only capable of 
showing strong and deep emotion, but likewise all the deli- 
cate shades of feeling which ordinary eyes never display. 
There was, however, no trace of weakness in her face. 
She looked like one born to command and to be obeyed, 
— like one who thought seriously, even about trivial mat- 
ters, and who, having determined what course to pursue, 
was not to be diverted from her purpose by either argu- 
ments or entreaties. All the firmness of her character 
was displayed in one feature, — her mouth. It was not a 
passionless mouth, with thin, compressed lips pale from 
their bloodlessness, but one with graceful curves and 
ample fulness, its every motion indicating strength and 
truth. 

One might suppose at first sight that Cordelia was one 
who allowed her face always to be the index of her mind. 
It revealed her thoughts, however, only when she per- 
mitted it to do so ; for she held her feelings well under 
control, to the extent of appearing sometimes cold and in- 
different, perhaps cruel. She was just one and twenty, 
and consequently had not yet attained to her full intellec- 
tual and bodily development. But even now she under- 
stood how to suffer without complaint, how to endure with 
patience, and how to persevere with a tenacity of purpose 
which, though capable of being enlightened as she grew 
older, could never become more persistent. 

Cordelia was not beautiful according to the conventional 
standard of beauty. She had too much individuality for 
that, and too little of the sentimental prettiness so pleas- 


4 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


ing to commonplace minds. Intellectual people, however, 
would have been attracted by a face which expressed an 
infinitude of quiet power combined with an unbounded 
capability of showing both mental force and emotional 
activity. A man who loved her, and had sufficient strength 
of character to master her, would probably end by becom- 
ing her willing slave. With women generally she could 
never by any possibility be a favorite. Many of them 
would have hated her, still more would have feared her, 
all would have respected her, but few probably have 
loved her. 

The two ladies sitting in that quaint Mexican room had 
been talking earnestly for more than an hour ; and, to judge 
by the flush of excitement which had risen to Cordelia’s 
face, the conversation was an important one. Even Miss 
Hericourt gave evidence of a slight degree of mental dis- 
turbance by an occasional sluggish movement of her 
eyes. 

Before we listen to what they may further have to say, 
let us become somewhat better acquainted with the cir- 
cumstances immediately surrounding them, and which are 
to exercise an overwhelming influence over their lives. 

About seventy-five years before the opening of this 
story, Rene d’ Hericourt, a young French officer of noble 
family, came to America on the staff of the Marquis de 
Lafayette. Being much pleased with the country, and, 
moreover, in love with a pretty Southern girl, he resolved 
to become naturalized as an American citizen; and, on 
the conclusion of peace between the Colonies and Great 
Britain, he bought an estate in Virginia, and settled down 
to the work of a planter. Shortly afterward he married 
Miss Betsy Faulkner, the daughter of a Virginia gentle- 
man, a planter like himself, whose property adjoined his 
own. On the death of his father-in-law, a year later, Heri- 
court became, through his wife, the possessor of a landed 


THE HERICOURTS. 


5 

estate, which, with his own property, made him one of the 
wealthiest men in Virginia. 

Two children were born to him, — a boy, whom he 
called Rene; and a girl, Anastasia. When Anastasia was 
two years of age her mother died ; and Col. Hericourt, 
as he was called, decided to sell his American property, 
and return to France, for the purpose of educating his chil- 
dren, he said, but in reality because he longed to renew 
the associations of his youth, and enjoy an older and more 
luxurious civilization than that which prevailed on a to- 
bacco plantation. 

Land, crops, and slaves were accordingly sold ; and with 
the proceeds in American gold, to the extent of over 
a hundred thousand dollars. Col. Hericourt set out for 
France. In the southern part of that country, near Avi- 
gnon, lived his father and sisters, shorn, by the work of the 
French Revolution, of almost all their estate, except a few 
acres immediately surrounding their old chateau. 

Little Rene at this time was nine years of age, and 
his sister Anastasia seven. It was in the year i8io, 
when France, under the First Napoleon, was at war with 
nearly the whole of Europe. On the very night that Col. 
Hericourt with his children and their old negro nurse 
arrived at the chateau, a large detachment of French 
troops, on their way to Spain, encamped scarcely half a 
mile from the house. Wandering parties of foragers 
visited the chateau ; and Col. Hericourt, who had brought 
with him four stout oaken boxes containing his money, 
felt great apprehension for its safety. His whole mind 
was engrossed with this gold, which was to buy back 
the land that had been lost, and restore the estate of his 
ancestors to something approaching its ancient grandeur. 
He sat up till late that night watching the boxes. Out- 
side he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs and the clanging 
of sabres, accompanied now and then by a pistol-shot, as 


6 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


squad after squad of troops passed by to and from the 
camp. Unable, finally, to obtain any thing like mental 
repose, he went out to the stable-yard behind the chateau, 
and, seizing a spade, hurriedly dug a deep hole in the earth. 
Then he returned to the house, and taking the boxes one 
by one, — for each weighed nearly a hundred pounds, — 
carried them to the excavation he had just made. The 
wind was blowing in mournful gusts, and the pale moon- 
light sought vainly at times to penetrate the heavy clouds 
overhead. The chateau, a dark, irregular mass in the dis- 
tance, was surrounded by tall trees, which swayed to and 
fro with the gathering storm. Col. H6ricourt, standing 
beside the mound of upturned earth, made a strange figure 
there. Now and then, as he placed the boxes in the deep 
hole, he stopped to listen ; and once, thinking he heard a 
sudden faint footfall on the gravel-path near by, he -started, 
and turned quickly aside into the shrubbery. But nothing 
came to disturb him ; and, having replaced the earth and 
gravel over the buried chests, he went back to his room, 
and was soon sound asleep. 

On the following morning, when his father’s valet came 
to call him to breakfast. Col. H^ricourt did not reply to 
the gentle knock at the door. The man entered, and 
found him still in bed, lying with his face upturned, and 
both hands folded across his breast. He tried to rouse 
him, but failed; and, when help was summoned, it was 
discovered that he was dead. An apoplectic fit, the old 
French doctor declared, had seized Col. Hdricourt during 
•the night, and quietly extinguished his life. 

Of course, search was made for the missing money, 
which Baron Hericourt knew his son had brought with 
him; but it was never found. In his haste and fatigue 
that night. Col. Hericourt had neglected to close the doors 
when he returned to the house; and it was supposed 
from this, that robbers had entered the room while its 


THE HERICOURTS. 


7 


occupant was asleep, or in the stupor incidental to his 
attack, and had carried off the boxes of gold. Such scoun- 
drels are always to be found on the outskirts of every 
large army. 

The two children, thus left to the charge of their grand- 
father and two maiden aunts, found their prospects in life 
materially altered ; for the old baron had barely enough 
income to maintain himself and his daughters in the hum- 
ble way which poverty forced upon him. Rene and Anas- 
tasia were, therefore, not sent to school, but remained at 
home, to be educated by Mademoiselle Clotilde, the older 
of the two aunts, who had a studious mind, and considered 
herself quite capable of bringing the children up in a way 
befitting two scions of the ancierine noblesse. 

But, when five or six years of this kind of life had passed 
uneventfully, a letter which created much excitement was 
received at the chateau. It was from Mr. Madison, then 
President of the United States, who had been an old 
friend of Col. Hericourt’s; and it contained the offer to 
appoint Rene to a cadetship at West Point. This proposal 
was too advantageous to be declined ; so young Hericourt 
returned to the United .States, and in due course of time 
became an officer in the American army. Eventually 
he married, but his wife died shortly after the birth of a 
daughter ; so he begged his sister Anastasia, who was still 
single, to make her home permanently with him, and be- 
come the guardian of his child. Miss Hericourt hesitated 
for a long time, being reluctant to undertake the journey, 
and to assume so grave a responsibility ; but finally she 
acceded to her brother’s request. 

When the Mexican war broke out Rene was a captain. 
At its close he was a major; and, shortly before the open- 
ing of this story, he had been ordered to New Mexico in 
command of the fort at Santa Fe. 

While making an attack upon a large force of Navajo 


8 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


Indians, he was severely wounded, and brought back to 
Santa Fe. Recovery, however, was out of the question ; 
and he died on the very morning that a package of papers 
arrived for him from France. It remained unopened for 
several days after his burial. Then his daughter Cordelia 
broke the seal with trembling hands. It was of the in- 
formation contained in this packet that the two ladies 
were talking when introduced to the reader. 

Two other ladies were at this time inmates of the house. 
These were Mrs. Aldergrove — a cousin of the major’s on 
his mother’s side — and her daughter Margaret. There was 
a remarkable circumstance connected with them. Mrs. 
Aldergrove in personal appearance was almost the exact 
image of Miss Hericonrt, while Margaret equally resem- 
bled Cordelia. In neither case did the similarity extend 
beyond face and figure. In character they were very 
different, although even here there were one or two strik- 
ing analogies. Mrs. Aldergrove was weak and rather pli- 
able. Margaret was strong and wilful, keeping her mother 
well under control. But while the Hericourts were de- 
vout, even bigoted, Roman Catholics, the Aldergroves 
were fully as firm and zealous Protestants. 

Major Hericourt had often commented with wonder 
upon the physical characteristics of his daughter and sister 
being so exactly duplicated in the persons of his cousins, 
and he had studied the subject in all its scientific and 
ancestral relations. Inquiry and search had resulted in 
the finding of an ivory miniature of Miss Betsy Faulkner’s 
grandmother, taken when she was eighteen years of age ; 
and the resemblance borne to it by both Cordelia and Mar- 
garet was indeed very striking. The likeness, therefore, 
was only an instance of the atavism, at that time compara- 
tively unknown, to which the attention of scientists has 
of late years been so markedly directed. As for Miss 
Hericourt and Mrs. Aldergrove, no reason for the simi- 


THE HERICOURTS, 


9 


larity between them could ever be discovered. Major 
Hericourt thought the prototype existed far back in some 
early stage of the family. It was more probable, that the 
circumstance was one of those inexplicable coincidences, 
apparently accidental, in which Nature so often indulges. 

The Aldergroves had been members of the major’s 
family for a few weeks only. He had invited them to stay 
for a year in Santa Fe, with the expectation that the alti- 
tude of the place and the rarity and purity of the air would 
be beneficial to Margaret, whose lungs were considered 
weak. Previously to this visit, neither Miss Hericourt nor 
Cordelia had met them ; and up to the present time no 
warm degree of affection had sprung up between the two 
couples. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE LOST MONEY. 

“De I’argent, de I’argent, toujours de I’argent.” 

‘‘My dear Cordelia,” Miss Hericourt was saying with 
her slight French accent, “I am so astonished at what 
you have told me, that I cannot understand the half of it. 
Indeed, I am hardly sure that I have any of it right. My 
mind is so upset with the dreadful events of the past two 
weeks, that I am sure you will pardon me if I ask you to 
repeat the principal points of the story you have just re- 
lated. To think that the packet should have remained 
unopened all this time ! ” 

There was a look of weariness on Cordelia’s face, but 
she patiently began for the third time to narrate the facts 
which had apparently so disturbed her aunt’s mental equi- 
librium. “You know,” she said, “that my grandfather 
was supposed to have been robbed on the night of his 
death.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Hericourt calmly. “It is now over 
forty years ago.” 

“Well,” Cordelia continued, referring to the papers 
which lay upon the table, “it seems that he was not robbed 
after all.” 

“Not robbed ! Oh, yes ! so you were telling me,” said 
Miss Hericourt, a perplexed expression crossing her face. 
“ Has all the money been found ? ” 

lO 


THE LOST MONEY. 


II 


‘‘Yes, just where he left it, buried in the ground near 
the chateau.” 

“Tell me about it again,” said Miss Hericourt, “for I 
have forgotten already. Some workmen, I think you 
said ” — 

“ At my great-grandfather’s death, the chateau went to 
his two daughters,” said Cordelia. 

“ My dear aunts ! ” exclaimed Miss Hericourt, raising 
her eyes to the ceiling. “ How much I am indebted to 
them for their fostering care ! ” 

“ If you will please not to interrupt me, aunt, I shall be 
able to get through sooner, and you will better understand 
the whole history.” 

“True,” said Miss Hericourt. She opened her eyes a 
little wider, and fixed them upon her niece. 

“ My father,” continued Cordelia, “ renounced his in- 
terest in the estate in favor of his aunts ; and they willed it 
away to a distant cousin, whose name I have never even 
known until now. His son is the present owner, and, 
being wealthy, wished not long ago to make extensive ad- 
ditions to the chateau. One day, in company with his 
architect, he was observing the work of some laborers 
who were digging the foundation for a new building to be 
erected. Suddenly the men came upon four oaken chests 
buried in the ground. They were marked with my grand- 
father’s name. Monsieur d’Hericourt knew of the story 
which existed in the family in regard to the stolen money, 
and he at once suspected that these boxes contained the 
hundred thousand dollars belonging to my grandfather. 
Upon opening them, they were indeed found to be filled 
with American gold ; and papers were there besides, which 
proved beyond a doubt that the treasure was the long-lost 
money.” 

“ He might have said nothing about it, and have kept 
the whole, if he had so chosen,” said Miss Hericourt mus- 
ingly, forgetting the injunction laid upon her. 


12 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


‘‘He is a Hericourt and a gentleman,” said Cordelia, 
flushing. “ Consequently he could have done nothing of 
the kind.” 

“Of course not,” said Miss Hericourt with confused 
haste. “ I forgot for the moment that he was a Hericourt.” 

“He therefore wrote at once to my father,” Cordelia 
went on, recovering herself, “and informed him of the 
facts, stating his readiness to make over the entire sum to 
you and him, who are the rightful heirs. My poor father’s 
death has, of course, devolved his rights upon me ; so that 
you and I are now the owners of it all.” 

Miss Hericourt rolled her eyes a little at this intelli- 
gence, but made no comment. 

“He says in his letter,” Cordelia continued, “that some 
formalities will have to be complied with, and that the 
heirs will be obliged to appear in person, to establish their 
identity.” 

“What ! go to France .^” cried Miss Hericourt with mo- 
mentary animation. “ Oh, that is impossible ! Nothing 
would induce me to cross the ocean again. Let me give 
up my claim at once. You go, Cordelia, and take it all, 
my share as well as yours. I do not want the money. 
Say, if you like, that I am dead. Get it : and, as for me, 
you will care for me while I live ; and my share would be 
yours in any event at my death, which I fear is not very far 
off.” 

There was a little pathos in her thin voice as she uttered 
the last words. 

“ Listen to me, aunt Anastasia, and I will tell you what 
I have resolved to do,” said Cordelia quietly. “ If you can 
agree with me, we shall both be happy during our lives, and 
sure of a blissful eternity hereafter. Before I knew of the 
existence of this packet,” she continued after a pause, “ I 
had intended to enter the convent of Our Lady of Guada- 
loupe, and there devote my remaining years to the service 


THE LOST MONEY. 


13 


of the Church, by helping to educate the poor, ignorant 
girls in this wretched country. The idea of possessing 
this wealth has not deterred me in the least from my pur- 
pose. On the contrary, it has strengthened my desire, and 
will enable me to do more than I ever dreamed of being 
permitted to accomplish. I now see my way clearly, and 
yours too, aunt. Let us be of some use to our holy 
religion. Let us take this money, and devote it to Christ 
and his service. Why should we not found a religious 
order for women, — women who will give their lives to 
works of charity and faith, and who will help to lift our 
Church from the degradation into which it has fallen 
among these uncultivated people ? Here in Santa Fe we 
will build our home, and here we will live and die.” 

While speaking, Cordelia had risen from her seat to 
pace the floor excitedly. It was late in the afternoon ; 
and the sun, on the point of setting, streamed in through 
the small, irregular windows, turning the quaint mahogany 
furniture upholstered in old Spanish leather into almost 
brilliant magnificence. One ray of quivering crimson light 
fell upon the girl’s plain black dress. Her face glowed 
with suppressed feeling, while a keen animation sparkled 
in her deep gray eyes. Miss Hericourt seemed for a 
moment to be dumb with amazement; but suddenly her 
features relaxed, and she clasped her hands. 

‘‘ It will be a glorious life, Cordelia,” she said, without a 
trace of agitation. “Of course, I will do just as you wish. 
Perhaps, however, it may not be necessary for us to go to 
France.” 

“Yes, we must go to France if we desire to get the 
money. There can be no escape from that, I fear,” said 
Cordelia, resuming her seat. “ I have looked the papers 
carefully over, and it is really essential that we appear in 
person to claim what belongs to us. I shall write by the 
mail that goes to-morrow morning. I shall also send our 


14 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


photographs, and descriptions of our persons signed by the 
bishop, so that our cousin may have no difficulty in recog- 
nizing us when we meet. Then, in two weeks we will 
leave Santa Fe. It will take us about three months to 
make the journey and return.” 

“I suppose it must be as you say. You always know 
what is best, Cordelia. But I wish this journey could be 
avoided. I am wretchedly sick when at sea, and travelling 
across the plains is so tedious and fatiguing.” 

“Yes; but it is evidently our duty to go, nevertheless,” 
replied Cordelia, with determination. “And I know you 
will try to endure any trial to which you may be subjected. 
Remember what we are about to do for Christ and his 
Holy Church. Help me to carry this great undertaking 
to a successful end. God sent this fortune to us when 
trouble had prepared our hearts to prompt us to its proper 
use. Now we can kiss the hand which dealt us the blow.” 

“Yes, I know,” said Miss Hericourt feebly. 

“ I feel so tired, though,” said Cordelia, rising presently, 
“and my head is so confused by all this, that I hardly know 
where to begin. At all events, I must see Padre Lamont 
to-night, and tell him what has happened. How delighted 
he will be to know that at last his ideas are to be actually 
carried out ! I am going to my own room, aunt ; and Jose 
shall take a note at once to Padre Lament’s lodgings. Do 
you not think an appointment for eight o’clock this even- 
ing will suit him ” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” said Miss Hericourt. “ I should say eight 
o’clock, by all means.” 


CHAPTER III. 

POOR RELATIONS. 


“ Der Hass ist ein actives Missvergnugen, der Neid ein passives ; deshalb darf man 
sich nicht wundern wenn der Neid so schnell in Hass iibergeht.” — Goethe. 

Just after Cordelia had left the room, the door was 
gently opened, and a lady appeared upon the threshold. 
She was about to withdraw on seeing Miss Hericourt ap- 
parently sound asleep; but the latter, who was as wide 
awake as her sluggish circulation and semi-congested 
brain would permit, called to her in a faint voice, — 

“ Did you say, Cordelia, that all the money had been 
found ? ” 

A sudden change came over the other’s face. She en- 
tered softly, and closed the door. 

“ My dear cousin,” she said, “ I am not Cordelia ; and I 
do not know what you mean. There is nothing of which 
I possess less practical knowledge than money.” 

“ Oh ! it is Margaret, of course,” said Miss Hericourt, 
raising herself in her chair to catch a better view of the 
new-comer. *‘The light is dim; and besides, I was not 
looking at you. But you and Cordelia are more alike 
now than ever, for you are both dressed in black. Do 
you not think one of you ought to wear some distin- 
guishing badge, — a white collar, for instance, or a jet 
brooch ? It was only yesterday that Capt. E ullerton 
spoke to you for Cordelia, while Lieut. Williams ad- 


15 


1 6 A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 

dressed your cousin as Miss Aldergrove. It is exceed- 
ingly embarrassing.” 

Margaret smiled. ‘‘Neither fact is very remarkable,” 
she said, “ when we consider that Capt. Fullerton is un- 
able to see any thing unless it be twenty feet off ; while 
Lieut. Williams’s power of vision does not extend beyond 
the tip of his nose. I doubt even if he can see the end of 
that feature at all, as it is very long.” 

“You do not seem to like Mr. Williams,” said Miss 
Hericourt stiffly. “ I regret it. My brother and I hoped 
you might marry him.” 

“ I marry Mr. Williams ! ” exclaimed Margaret disdain- 
fully. “ The mere fact that he is a Roman Catholic would 
prevent my doing so, even were there no other reasons.” 

“ We are Roman Catholics,” said Miss Hericourt, laying 
a slight emphasis on the pronoun. 

“Yes, I know. But I have no intention of marrying 
you or Cordelia,” Margaret answered carelessly. “ How- 
ever, let us change the subject. You were speaking of 
my resemblance to my cousin. I have discovered one 
point of difference between us. Look at the back of my 
neck.” She knelt before Miss Hericourt, and bent her 
head. “ I have a little brown freckle there close to my 
hair ; while Cordelia has no such blemish, or beauty, which- 
ever it may be. Mother discovered it a few days ago. Do 
you see it ? ” 

Miss Hericourt looked attentively at the spot indicated. 
“ Yes, I see it, of course,” she said, after several seconds 
of reflection. “ How strange that no other difference 
should exist between you and Cordelia ! Only a tiny 
speck ! It is very remarkable.” 

Margaret rose to her feet. She was indeed strikingly 
like her cousin. There were the same hair and eyes, the 
same full lips and rounded chin, the same contour of the 
face, the same tall, slender figure. It was a wonderful 


POOR RELATIONS. 


17 

resemblance, having in it something unnatural. And yet, 
when the two girls stood side by side, slight differences 
could be observed, not in the features themselves perhaps, 
so much as in their expression. When at rest, it required 
minute inspection to discover any dissimilarity between 
them ; and, even when found, it was difficult to say precisely 
what constituted it. But, when in action, they were seen 
at times to be quite unlike. The points of variation were 
especially noticeable in the movements of the mouth and 
eyelids. Margaret had a habit of partly closing her eyes 
whenever she talked earnestly. Cordelia was entirely ex- 
empt from this mannerism. She always looked straight 
into the face of the person with whom she spoke. She 
also opened her lips unreservedly, allowing her white and 
regular teeth to come into view. Margaret, on the other 
hand, kept her mouth as tightly closed as was consistent 
with distinct articulation ; and sometimes a few words 
would be uttered with an unpleasant sound, as though she 
spoke with malice, or intense feeling of another kind. As 
she stood before Miss Hericourt, with her features in com- 
plete repose, no one unfamiliar with the facial characteris- 
tics of the two cousins could have told whether she was 
Margaret Aldergrove or Cordelia Hericourt. 

“What did you mean,” she asked after a short silence, 
turning to her cousin, “ by asking me about money when 
you mistook me for Cordelia.^” 

“ Oh, nothing ! ” Miss Hericourt replied evasively. 

“Hardly nothing,” Margaret persisted. “You may as 
well tell me while we are alone,” she added. 

“ I think I promised particularly not to mention it,” said 
Miss Hericourt uneasily. “ Cordelia has reasons of her 
own, I suppose. However,” she continued presently, not- 
ing the determined glance in Margaret’s eyes, “I cannot 
see why you should not be told. And, indeed, now that I 
reflect, I am not sure that I made any promise at all.” 


i8 


A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE. 


** Tell me, then,” said Margaret imperatively. 

She knew the weakness of Miss Hericourt’s character, 
and was perfectly aware that a command delivered in an 
authoritative tone would cause the recollection of previous 
orders to vanish like smoke. In this instance her fore- 
sight was certainly correct ; for in a few moments Miss 
Hericourt had related the story of the lost money from 
beginning to end, as well as she could remember it. 

Margaret took in each word with intense eagerness ; and, 
when finally it dawned upon her that her cousins had sud- 
denly become possessed of a large sum of money, a feeling 
composed of envy and avarice in about equal portions 
arose within her, and almost choked her. She hated them 
for their good fortune. Hitherto she had pretended to 
have some regard for them, for she well knew where her 
interests lay. But in her heart she disliked her cousins 
with an intensity which they did not in the least suspect. 
But she liked them better poor than rich, — better misera- 
ble than happy. She particularly detested Cordelia, whose 
calm, authoritative demeanor, which nothing apparently 
could discompose, angered her almost beyond endurance. 

Poverty had always been her portion. Ever since she 
could recollect, she had been dependent upon somebody 
for the food she ate and the clothes she wore. Staring her 
in the face, night and day, was the hideous vision of con- 
tinual privation, which, in addition to its grim presence, 
seemed to mock at her vain efforts to baffle it. And now 
these two women, who had never known the pangs of want 
in any sense of the word, had had wealth forcibly thrust 
upon them. The thought was bitter and horrible to her. 
As she sat there in the gathering twilight beside her 
cousin, her long, slender fingers twisted themselves to- 
gether with suppressed rage, and she seemed to stifle for 
want of air. 

But apart from the personal view of the matter, her 


rOOJ^ A^ELATIOA'S. 


19 


emotion had another basis upon which to rest. Margaret 
loved money, — loved it more for its own sake than for what 
it would give her. She was naturally a miser, and her life 
hitherto had caused the innate tendency to be developed 
into a growth of immense proportions. It has been 
asserted that avarice is a passion appertaining to weak 
minds, and rarely, if ever, to be met with in the young. 
Margaret Aldergrove was an emphatic denial of both these 
dogmas. She wanted money, — money to keep, to look at, 
to gloat over. She longed to feel, that in its possession 
she could not only gratify all her desires, but command 
likewise a portion of the great power that moves the 
world, and before which the wise and the foolish, the strong 
and the weak, the learned and the ignorant, the righteous 
and the wicked, with few exceptions, bend the knee in 
abject worship. 

Margaret considered herself religious. She went regu- 
larly to church, said her prayers night and morning, and 
was ever ready to reprove evil in others by holding up to 
their contemplation the cheerful prospect of eternal pun- 
ishment. She spent much time in trying to persuade the 
Deity that he had no more consistent and devout wor- 
shipper than herself. She possessed that self-gratulation, 
and firm consciousness of mental and moral perfectibility, 
which the doctrine of predestination is so well calculated 
to call forth ; and finally, she deceived herself into the 
belief that her election had been pre-ordained from the 
very foundation of the world. 

In telling her story. Miss Hericourt had neglected to 
state that she and Cordelia had determined to give their 
newly acquired wealth to the Church. The omission prob- 
ably resulted from the fact that she had forgotten this 
arrangement for the time being. 

*‘Of course,” said Margaret at last, rousing herself from 
the abstraction into which she had fallen, “I must tell 


20 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


mother of this change in your prospects ; for it will, doubt- 
less, lead to some alteration in our own plans. Here she 
is now,” she added, as the door opened to admit another 
lady. “ We can tell her together.” 

The new-comer walked across the floor with that undu- 
lating motion which is habitual with some women, and 
stood for a moment as if in doubt which of the others she 
would address first. In face and figure she was marvel- 
lously like Miss Hericourt; but there was far more intelli- 
gence in her countenance than her cousin could have ex- 
hibited, even in her best days. Mrs. Aldergrove’s expres- 
sion however, was not much more agreeable than Miss 
Hericourt’s. While the latter’s was unsatisfactory from its 
passivity and negativeness, the former’s was suggestive of 
a certain ability for working mischief. It was not, perhaps, 
more to be dreaded, — for the capability of a well-inten- 
tioned fool for ill-doing is practically unlimited, — but one 
especially to be watched with apprehension and caution. 
Generally speaking, we are prepared for the tricks of the 
wicked ; but who can tell where, or in what shape, the 
vagaries of the imbecile will be displayed } Their very 
unexpectedness constitutes their chief danger. 

A practical physiognomist, on looking at Mrs. Alder- 
grove, would have said that she was not a person to be 
particularly troubled with scruples when she had an object 
in view. At the same time, her mind was any thing but 
original. It was utterly wanting in resources, and habitu- 
ated long since to being controlled by her daughter, the 
little self-assertion with which she had been endowed grad- 
ually became extinguished. Of course, Margaret carried 
off the palm so far as superior mental force in surmounting 
obstacles was concerned ; but what is a vigorous com- 
mander unless the troops at his disposal are able and will- 
ing to execute his orders faithfully .? 

This was the relation existing between mother and 


POOR RELATIONS. 


21 


daughter. Each knew her place, and each was satisfied 
with the position. They had worked together for years 
with almost unvarying success ; and, when they failed, it 
was owing to no fault of theirs, but simply because the 
impediments were of such a character as to render their 
removal impossible. There were no compunctions in either 
of fhem. By concerted action they had hitherto been able 
to keep themselves comfortable and respectable without 
offending their fine sense of the fitness of things by work- 
ing for their living, — that is, working in the ordinary sense 
of the word ; for so far as scheming, contest, subterfuge, 
deceit, and hypocrisy went, they had been as active as the 
most energetic worker in his ceaseless struggle for exist- 
ence ever is. As a natural consequence, their wits were 
pared down, so to speak, to a degree of acuteness not to 
be despised by the most experienced knave modern life is 
capable of producing. Not the least result of their pecul- 
iar qualifications was the fact, that they had successfully 
imposed upon all with whom they had come in contact, 
and in addition, bore reputations for godliness and virtue 
which any saint in the calendar might have envied. 

Mrs. Aldergrove listened to the recital of Miss Heri- 
court’s story without showing any surprise, and at its con- 
clusion was enthusiastic in the expression of her pleasure 
at her cousins’ good fortune. She was a politic woman, — 
more so, perhaps, than Margaret; for she had far less in- 
dependence of character, and could often discharge tasks 
requiring a degree of tact and prudence which her daugh- 
ter could not exercise without doing more violence to her 
feelings than was precisely agreeable. 

“ It is a perfect summer evening, and I am going for a 
walk. Will you come with me.?” she said to Margaret 
gently. “The exercise will do you good.” 

“ Very well,” answered Margaret, rising from her chair. 
She took her mother’s arm, and they advanced together 


22 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


toward the door. I want to get out into the air,” she 
said, in so low a tone that it escaped Miss Hericourt’s ear. 
“ I want to think with a cool head. Something must be 
done now and quickly.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


PADRE LAMONT. 

“ Je vous le dis en v6rit^, celui qui aime, son coeur est un paradis sur la terre. II 
a Dieu en soi, car Dieu est amour.” — Lamennais. 

The house in Santa Fe occupied by the Hericourts was, 
like the better class of private residences in New Mexico, 
constructed so as to enclose a square court-yard, ox patio as 
it is called. It was built of sun-dried bricks, or adobes^ and 
was but one story high. But fs each of its four external 
walls was a hundred feet long, and the distance between 
them and the inside walls twenty-five feet or more, it con- 
tained quite a number of spacious rooms, every one of 
which opened upon a broad veranda surrounding the patio. 
There was but one entrance to the house, and that was 
by a passage wide enough to admit two carriages abreast. 
Large doors, thickly studded with big-headed iron spikes, 
made the building, when they were closed, as strong as a 
fortress, and able to resist any attack that might be made 
by Indians or other marauders belonging to the rather 
lawless region. In one of these doors was a smaller one, 
which was used by persons wishing to enter after the large 
portals had been shut, which they were promptly at sunset 
every evening. In front of the house paced a sentinel, 
kept there by the courtesy of the officer who succeeded to 
the command at Major Hericourt’s death. It was from a 
like consideration that Cordelia and her aunt were allowed 


24 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


to remain in quarters to which they had no longer any 
legal right. 

Precisely at eight o’clock on the evening following the 
opening of this story, Padre Lamont, who was well known 
to the soldier on post, as indeed he was to the whole gar- 
rison, rang the bell, and on being admitted through the 
small door, entered the room which served as parlor, and 
sat down to await Cordelia. 

The apartment was large, and rather sparsely furnished. 
A single lamp standing upon a table in one corner gave 
forth just that amount of light which religious women and 
ecclesiastics like, — a light dim enough to prevent every 
little expression of the face from being seen, and tending 
to arouse that mysterious association between darkness 
and devotional feeling said to exist in the hearts of all 
delicately organized persons. 

Padre Lamont wore the long cassock almost touching 
the ground, such as most bf the Mexican clergy adopted. 
He was of French descent, although by birth an Ameri- 
can, and had arrived in Santa Fe but a short time before 
the Hericourts, being in the suite of the excellent prelate 
appointed by the Church to take the spiritual charge of 
the recently erected New-Mexican diocese. Before that 
period the country, under the old regime, had been subject 
to the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Durango; and its state 
had been a by-word and a reproach to all enlightened 
members of the Roman Church. The change from the 
New-Mexican to the American hierarchy had produced 
striking results, even in the course of a month or two. 
The lazy, ignorant, and degraded Mexican priests had 
been, for the most part, gotten rid of in some miracu- 
lous way; and the proofs of recent elimination were still 
apparent. French, Irish, and American priests had taken 
their places, to the advantage of the Church and the peo- 
ple ; though many of the latter, in their low, corrupt con- 


PADRE LAMONT. 


25 


dition, failed to appreciate the transformation which was 
being wrought. Schools were established, some gross 
superstitions finally removed ; and the holidays, which 
were mere excuses for extraordinary indolence and dissi- 
pation, were greatly reduced in number. Progress, in 
short, was evident in all directions. 

Paul Lamont was one of the most advanced and en- 
lightened of the new-comers, and after some deliberation 
the Hericourts had selected him for their confessor and 
intimate friend. 

He was scarcely thirty-five years of age. His figure 
was tall and imposing, and his face remarkably handsome. 
In addition to these attractions he possessed brilliant con- 
versational powers, which he liked to display to listeners 
in sympathy with himself. Though a devoted member 
of the Roman-Catholic Church, it had been observed by 
many, that he rarely spoke of religion unless required to 
do so. To mixed audiences he was generally but little 
communicative ; and were it not for his dress, and a cer- 
tain gravity of expression which all priests are prone to 
exhibit, no one would have suspected his calling. 

In the American society of Santa Fe, composed as it 
was of army officers, government officials, and the better 
class of traders, who were generally Protestants if any 
thing at all. Padre Lamont was held in high esteem. 
This was mainly owing to the fact, that there was more 
enlightened humanit}^ and less bigoted intolerance shown 
by him than by his sluggish Episcopalian brother in the 
garrison, or the Freewill Baptist clergyman, who divided 
his time between horse-racing on week-days and soul-sav- 
ing on Sundays. 

His keen and well-developed aesthetic sense naturally 
caused him to admire the grandeur, dignity, and power, of 
the Roman-Catholic Church. It was, therefore, a great 
source of regret to him, that none of these things was 


26 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


exhibited in the church as it existed in Sante Fe. In- 
stead of a cathedral of carved stone, ornamented with 
graceful, lofty spires, and planned with the distinct object 
of leading one’s thoughts to the contemplation of those 
holy persons and things held in honor by the Roman 
faith, there was only an insignificant edifice composed of 
four adobe walls, surmounted by a mud roof, and a mis- 
shapen cupola of the same material. This structure had 
no pretension to interior decoration beyond the presence 
of some dusty pots of faded artificial flowers on the altar, 
and half a dozen fantastically dressed dolls, which, by a 
powerful effort of the imagination, were supposed to rep- 
resent the Virgin Mary, the other members of the Holy 
Family, and certain domestic saints of whom the world at 
large knows nothing. There were, to be sure, in a remote 
and obscure corner of the church, three old Spanish paint- 
ings of value, so Padre Lament declared ; but they had 
never, up to this time, been considered of sufficient impor- 
tance to be hung where the worshippers could see them. 
As for music, there was not even a small organ ; and who- 
ever has heard the average New-Mexican sing, would 
scarcely wish to have the experience repeated. 

It has been said that Padre Lamont was very handsome. 
His head was large, and well poised upon his broad shoul- 
ders. His face was rather full ; and his florid complexion 
pointed to robust health, indicating, perhaps, at the same 
time, a liking for the pleasures of the table. And, indeed, 
no one enjoyed a good dinner and a glass of fine Burgundy 
more than he. There was nothing of the ascetic about 
him ; and but for the thoughtfulness of his large dark eyes, 
and the unmistakable firmness expressed by his mouth 
and chin, he would have been looked upon by many peo- 
ple merely as a courteous, dignified man, without very 
strong convictions upon any point, except such as related 
to material pleasures. But three features, the eyes, mouth. 


PADRE LAMONT. 


27 


and chin, removed from his face every suspicion of weak- 
ness, frivolity, or sensuality which his round rosy cheeks 
aroused, — notably the chin, which was square, compact, 
massive, and carried high in the air, its rigidity express- 
ing at once the inflexibility of purpose and the pride, 
perhaps haughtiness, of its possessor. He was a man of 
large brain, of strong mind, and warm passions, the latter 
kept by severe discipline in entire subjection, but yet 
there, for good or ill according to the circumstances in 
which he might be placed. 

He had not sat longer than five or six minutes in the 
dimly lighted parlor, when Cordelia, with an apology for 
having kept him waiting, entered the room. Her face was 
flushed. She had evidently been weeping; and it was 
apparent, that she was making a violent effort to regain 
her composure for the interview, of whose importance the 
priest had received no intimation. 

“My child,” he said after his first greeting to her, “I 
see you still suffer in consequence of your father’s death. 
Can you not become reconciled to his loss, — you whose 
life is yet to be lived, and from whose energy and devotion 
we have so much to expect } ” 

“ I am reconciled, father,” said Cordelia, forcing a smile. 
“I have been weeping, I acknowledge, but not from the 
cause you suspect. I have something to tell you. A 
task has been imposed upon me which for a moment 
made my heart falter. I am still afraid to undertake it ; 
and yet my duty is so plain, that I cannot resist.” 

“ Be a little more explicit, and perhaps I may be able to 
help you,” said the priest kindly. “ What is this duty of 
which you speak } ” 

Cordelia told the story of the money in trembling tones. 
Padre. Lament listened attentively, without attempting 
any interruption. 

“But this is not all,” she continued. “There is still 


28 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE, 


something for which I crave your advice and your bless- 
ing. My aunt and I are quite alone in the world. 
Neither of us has any taste for the mere pleasures of life, 
which are productive of nothing but weariness. So we 
have determined that this money, so miraculously recov- 
ered, shall be devoted to God. With the bishop’s ap- 
proval, and your sanction, father, we will found a new 
order of holy women ; and the first house shall be estab- 
lished here. Our duties will be the education of young 
girls. In a few days we set out for France, and, while 
there, will not only obtain the money, but will endeavor, 
with your assistance, to make our project known to a few 
ladies of position, who may be induced to enter the order 
with us. I have already mentioned the subject to Mother 
Teresa, the superior of the convent ; and she heartily 
approves.” 

While Cordelia was speaking, a marked change passed 
over the priest’s features. At first his raised eyebrows 
and parted lips showed surprise, which rapidly gave way 
to a look of deep reflection tinged with melancholy. It 
seemed, finally, that he no longer heard her ; for his eyes 
assumed that half-vacant, half-dreamy look which indi- 
cates the isolation of the individual in his own contem- 
plations. And yet every word Cordelia uttered fell upon 
him with distinctness and force, resulting in an impres- 
sion so indelible that no lapse of time could ever efface it. 
A deadly struggle was taking place within him, but the 
victory remained with his good spirit. 

Cordelia finished, and stood before him awaiting his 
answer. 

The priest spoke slowly and calmly, his voice by no 
means betraying the conflict which had just raged in his 
breast. 

It is a noble mission,” he said. God has been good 
in choosing you to carry out his holy purpose toward the 


PADRE LA MONT, 


29 


poor, ignorant sheep of his fold. You will renounce the 
w^orld for a purer and more spiritual life. O my child,” 
he added fervently, rising from his chair to place his hands 
upon her head, “may the Infinite Father bless and pre- 
serve you ! May He keep you steadfast in the work you 
begin to-night ! ” He hesitated, and looked for a moment 
intently into her face. 

“ I am but an instrument in God’s hands,” said Cordelia 
gravely. 

A few moments passed in silence. Then the priest 
spoke again. 

“ So you and Miss Hericourt go to France to get this 
money,” he said. “ I shall be glad to give you letters to 
the Bishop of Avignon, whom I know well. There will 
then be no difficulty about establishing your identity.” 

“Thank you, father. You are always thoughtful and 
kind,” replied Cordelia. “ Here are our photographs,” 
she continued, taking them from her pocket as she spoke. 
“I thought it might be as well to send them to the 
bishop before we go. If you will forward them by to- 
morrow’s mail, we shall be greatly obliged to you.” 

“An excellent idea,” said the priest. “I will ask Bishop 
Lambert to certify to them with his name and seal. How 
like they are ! ” he continued, looking at the photographs 
attentively. “ This one of you is really a speaking image. 
His Grace of Avignon will surely recognize you when he 
sees you. No better means could possibly be devised for 
proving you to be the veritable Hericourts. We shall miss 
you very much here in Santa Fe, but the knowledge of 
what you are doing for the Church and humanity will sus- 
tain us in our regret. And when you return, with the 
means of carrying out your intentions, you know how 
happy we shall be. Next to Rome, Avignon is the holiest 
of cities. For seventy years the Popes made it their resi- 
dence ; and there Laura, whom Petrarch loved, was born. 


30 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


Her tomb stands in the Franciscan Church.” His voice 
became more tender. Cordelia was about to speak, but 
he interrupted her by a gesture. '“No more to-night,” 
he said. “You are tired, while I ” — he hesitated, as if seek- 
ing for words to express his thought. “Again, God bless 
you,” he said finally. You are a modern saint. I — I must 
go. I have delayed one of my most important duties.” 

And, before she could say another word, he had left the 
room. 


V 


CHAPTER V. 

A CONSPIRACY. 

“ Get money ; still get money, boy, 

No matter by what means.” 

Cordelia, her hands clasped before her, remained stand- 
ing for a few moments in the centre of the room, where 
the priest had left her. Then she extinguished the light, 
and stepped out upon the veranda, overlooking the patio. 
The night was calm and still : overhead the moon, sailing 
rapidly, cast a flood of white light across the rough stones 
of the court-yard, and made the few flowers which bloomed 
in the centre lose their brilliant coloring. Far off in the 
distance Jose, the servant, was singing to the accompani- 
ment of a violin, both voice and instrument, it must be 
confessed, somewhat the worse for wear, — 

“ Si mi dolor no te conmueve, 

Si no te apiadas mi triste padecer, 

Permittame Paulina, en que te nombre 
Mi dulce amor, mi dulce amor, mi cara bien, 

Pero, se mi amas tu seras amado, 

Plies que en I’amarte se cifra mi placer, 

He dicho asi mil veces y he jurado. 

Antes morir, antes morir, que te aborecer.” 

Cordelia, pre-occupied and perplexed, drew a chair toward 
her, and, sitting down, leaned her head on both hands, ob- 
serving, as she did so, that the latter were hot and feverish. 
But was not this natural enough, after so exciting a day as 


3 * 


32 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


she had just passed, coming too, as it did, so soon after 
her father s death, while her mind was still depressed ? 
Besides, Padre Lament’s strange behavior had somewhat 
startled her. Hitherto, in the course of th^ir acquaint- 
ance, or friendship as it might fitly be called, his manner 
had always been quiet and dignified, enlivened now and 
then by a touch of humor, the outcome of his healthy animal 
spirits. But the mood in which he had appeared to her 
to-night was a wholly new one. Something had palpably 
disturbed him, — but what? Her communication to him 
had surely contained nothing to produce so extraordinary 
an effect. She had observed, too, that sometimes his 
eyes had eagerly sought hers, and, again, fallen beneath her 
glance, seeking even to avoid it. Had she offended him ? 
Gradually, however, her thoughts wandered from this sub- 
ject to the mission she was about to undertake, the mere 
idea filling her soul with a sense of nobility and elevation. 

Suddenly a shadow darkened the doorway beside her; 
and Miss Hericourt, who had a wholesome horror of night 
air, which she always associated somehow with malaria and 
scorpions, stepped cautiously upon the veranda, and laid 
her hand on Cordelia’s shoulder. 

“Why! what are you doing here?” she asked, with as 
much astonishment as she was capable of exhibiting. “ It 
is not wise to sit in this damp atmosphere. Padre Lament 
left half an hour ago. Why do you not go to bed ? ” 

“ He has not been gone long, aunt,” Cordelia answered 
abstractedly. “And my head is so hot, I thought the air 
would cool it.” 

“ I heard the door close behind him long ago,” said Miss 
Hericourt. “ But, my dear,” she added, taking one of her 
niece’s hands in hers, “ what is the matter with you ? 
Your hands are burning. Are you ill ?” 

“ No,” said Cordelia, rising to her feet, “ not ill, but 
very tired, and ” — As she spoke, a feeling of utter weari- 


A CONSP/J^ACV. 


33 


ness and helplessness overcame her. Jose’s voice seemed 
suddenly to die away in the distance. The brilliant moon- 
light turned to a thick white mist ; and she would have 
fallen had not Miss Hericourt placed one arm about her, 
and led her away into the house. 

On the following day a rather singular scene was en- 
acted in the Hericourts.’ sitting-room. It was a large 
apartment, barely lighted by three diminutive windows. 
The furniture, old and shabby as it was, still bore traces 
of former elegance ; for the massive frames of carved oak 
were yet moderately well preserved, even if the upholstery 
of Spanish leather was worn and dilapidated. On one 
side of the room Major Hericourt had constructed a tall 
mantel-piece of deal boards, draped heavily with red and 
yellow damask, which likewise must have seen better 
days ; as a close inspection of it revealed many cleverly 
wrought patches and darns. Upon this imposing structure 
were a large gilt clock and a pair of antiquated candelabra, 
which Miss Hericourt had brought from France, and given 
to her brother. They were, she said, very valuable ; al- 
though the clock had never been known to go since old 
Baron H^ricour4: had purchased it more than half a cen- 
tury ago. There was something melancholy about this 
bold attempt to ornament the room, in contrast with the 
rough walls built of mud, and covered with a thin coating 
of lime. Overhead, the ceiling of jagged, uneven logs, 
through whose yawning apertures shingles of various forms 
and colors were distinctly visible, increased the strange 
effect. A large wooden shield of quaint design hung at 
the far end of the apartment ; and upon it some Mexican 
hand had rudely carved three heads, supposed to represent 
the Holy Trinity. The faces were barbarously painted in 
rough dashes of white and red ; while each was further 
decorated by long, flowing locks, and an immense black 


34 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE, 


mustache. A collar, fastened below the three ludicrous 
countenances, with a satin cravat tied in an exaggerated 
bow ; and a gaudy dress of blue and yellow, terminating in 
a pair of impossible feet, set off the heads to advantage. 
The last-named garment was ingeniously contrived ; for not 
only did it answer the purpose of costume, but served also 
to hide any little anatomical defects which might otherwise 
have been apparent. Still, Major Hericourt, but little im- 
pressed by the artistic attributes of this shield, had, on 
seeing it for the first time, fallen back upon a chair, almost 
choking with suppressed laughter ; and even Miss Heri- 
court had smiled in her perplexed, unmeaning way. A 
wooden bracket supporting a large doll hung on each 
side of the Holy Trinity. One of these puppets, intended 
for the Virgin, was dressed in white satin, profusely trimmed 
with tawdry silver lace. The other, St. Joseph, wore a 
brown silk robe, adorned with scraps of nondescript finery. 
Notwithstanding these characteristic decorations, which 
seemed to speak to the beholder of an age far remote and 
obscure, and in spite of the comparative comfort of the 
room, it was hardly one which a person of delicate sensi- 
bility would care to inhabit. The small windows, filled 
in with microscopic bits of isinglass, v^re so irregular, 
that they gave a distorted appearance to every thing in 
the apartment. Perhaps it was owing to this fact, that 
the faces of the two ladies seated at the large table in the 
centre of the floor looked so wry and contorted. 

These ladies were Mrs. Aldergrove and Miss Hericourt, 
who sat facing each other. Both were attired in gowns of 
severe black, each had her hands folded demurely before 
her, and each was so wanting in any depth of expression 
that they recalled effigies of persons long ago dead and 
gone. Perhaps Mrs. Aldergrove’s figure was drawn up a 
little more severely than her cousin’s, and the corners of 
her thin, compressed lips were rather sarcastic in aspect 


A CONSPIRACY. 


35 


than weak. Between the two stood Margaret, her well- 
shaped head thrown back, and her eyes half closed. From 
time to time she opened the latter to cast a glance of con- 
centrated anger and hate at Miss Hericourt, who, however, 
did not appear to notice it. The only sign of disturbance 
shown by her was in the restless wandering of her eyes 
from one object in the room to another. 

“I do not wish to cross the ocean at all,” she said, ad- 
dressing Mrs. Aldergrove. I told Cordelia so in the be- 
ginning. But, as to my going without her, that is out of 
the question. I am unable to attempt such a thing.” 

“It seems odd that Cordelia should be ill,” said Mar- 
garet. “ She was quite well yesterday. Even as late as 
nine o’clock last evening she was closeted with that dis- 
agreeable confessor of hers, Padre Lament.” 

“ How can you call Padre Lament disagreeable, Mar- 
garet.^” inquired Miss Hericourt, elevating her eyebrows a 
little. “ Cordelia,” she continued calmly, “has not been 
well for some time. She has had much to bear, — so much 
that I wonder she has not succumbed before. You surely 
remember, Margaret” — 

“What is the matter with my cousin ” interrupted the 
latter imperatively. 

“ We should be obliged to you for the particulars of 
her condition,” said Mrs. Aldergrove with bland com- 
posure. 

“ She has a fever. I thought I had already told you,” 
replied Miss Hericourt, unmoved. “I found her on the 
veranda last evening, fainting with weakness ; so I took her 
up to bed, and sent Jose for Dr. Baldwin. He says she is 
very ill, and that she is on no account to undertake the 
journey to France. Now,” continued Miss Hericourt, 
shrugging her shoulders, and spreading out her fat hands, 
“ What is to be done } I certainly cannot go alone. I 
have sent however, for Padre Lamont, and shall be guided 


36 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


entirely by his opinion in the matter. He always gives 
excellent advice,” she added, rolling her eyes at Mar- 
garet. 

“I have no doubt of it,” she replied stiffly. ‘^At the 
same time, my dear cousin, do you not think we have some 
claim to your confidence } We are nearer to you than this 
priest, whose advice, I fear, conceals some selfish motive. 
To us you can impute no such design.” 

“Oh, no! of course not,” said Miss Hericourt, glancing 
about her helplessly. 

“ I understand,” Margaret continued, still regarding her 
cousin from beneath her half-closed lids, “your repug- 
nance to crossing the ocean alone. But Cordelia’s unex- 
pected illness should not delay the execution of your plans. 
Of course, this sudden alteration in your worldly affairs 
must affect us in some degree. We can remain here no 
longer ; and last evening mother and I decided to go abroad, 
and spend the remainder of our lives there, — or, at least, 
to stay until we are tired of it. Now, why should you not 
go with us } We will take you as far as your destination, 
Avignon : and by that time, should Cordelia recover, she 
can join you ; or, if not, you can make other arrangements 
about returning to Santa Fe. What do you think of the 
idea .? ” 

Miss Hericourt glanced at Mrs. Aldergrove, whose ex- 
pression had changed to one of expectancy. Then she 
looked at the table, and finally raised her eyes to Mar- 
garet’s. 

“You wish me to go with you V' she asked, as if she 
had imperfectly understood.. 

“Yes,” said Margaret, briefly and distinctly. 

“The plan is an adtnirable one,” said Mrs. Aldergrove, 
drawing a black-bordered handkerchief from her pocket, 
and passing it over her dry lips. “ It would be wrong in 
you not to take advantage of it, my dear cousin.” 


A CONSPIRACY. 


37 


‘‘And Cordelia, — what of her ? ” asked Miss Hericourt 
uneasily. 

“ It is very strange,” said Margaret, “ but it was she her- 
self who proposed it. We were talking of the matter yes- 
terday, — of the money, I mean; and she said smilingly, 

‘ Now, should any thing happen to me, you could take my 
aunt to France to get this fortune.’ ” 

“She little knew, poor creature,” said Mrs. Aldergrove 
pathetically, “ how soon her idle words were to be verified. 
How unforeseen are the manifestations of Providence, 
cousin ! ” 

“ I fear I do not quite understand,” said Miss Hericourt, 
in a puzzled tone. “ Were Cordelia left here alone, what 
would become of her ? ” 

“ Had you a little more patience, I would have come to 
that,” replied Mrs. Aldergrove, with the faintest trace of 
irritation. “She spoke of the convent, of the ‘good sis- 
ters,’ as she expressed it.” She paused for a moment, and 
then added, “ I know well what going into a convent 
means. A mere excuse for idleness, and freedom from 
such responsibilities as the Lord has seen fit to impose 
upon us. Still, all do not think as I do ; and I can make 
allowances for your faith, cousin, and Cordelia’s.” 

Poor Miss Hericourt was at her wits’ end. She was 
quite unable to argue, either with Mrs. Aldergrove or Mar- 
garet ; but she was aware, nevertheless, that something 
must be said. Before she could make any reply, however, 
the door opened ; and Jose announced Padre Lament. 
At the mention of his name, Margaret smiled contemptu- 
ously, and walked toward one of the windows, which was 
just low enough to admit of a view into the street. Miss 
Hericourt drew a long breath of relief when a few sec- 
onds later the priest entered the room. He was evidently 
not in his usual good spirits, but his manner was as cor- 
dial as ever. He shook hands with Miss Hericourt, and 


38 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


bowed courteously to Mrs. Aldergrove, glancing hastily 
at the motionless figure at the window. He hesitated for 
a moment, and then advanced a few steps. 

“My child,” — he began — 

Margaret turned, and faced him rather haughtily. “You 
are mistaken,” she said. “ I am Margaret Aldergrove.” 

Padre Lament started, overcome with amazement at her 
resemblance to Cordelia. As he uttered a hasty apology, 
he regarded her with a close scrutiny in which doubt was 
mingled. During his visits to the house, frequent though 
they were, he had never seen Margaret before. She, how- 
ever, was familiar with his appearance, and had often, from 
her bedroom window, watched him come and go. She 
now acknowledged his polite excuse by a slight inclina- 
tion of her head. Then, with some remark to Miss Heri- 
court, she left the room, followed by her mother. 

Padre Lament sat down, and passed his hand mechani- 
cally across his forehead. 

“What a wonderful likeness!” he said. “How like 
Cordelia! and yet” — He stopped abruptly, and turned 
to Miss Hericourt. “You sent for me. Is there any 
thing that I can do for you ? ” he asked. 

Miss Hericourt related what had happened since the 
preceding evening as well as she could remember; her 
memory being always defective, even in regard to circum- 
stances which had just occurred. She gave, it is true, the 
details of Cordelia’s illness, but dwelt upon them slightly, 
confining herself more particularly to the dilemma in 
which she now found herself about the journey. 

The priest listened attentively to her somewhat ram- 
bling narrative, showing no sign of impatience or distress. 
Even when she finally finished, he did not speak immedi- 
ately, but sat seemingly lost in thought, his eyes fixed 
abstractedly upon the drugget of black and white cloth 
which covered the centre of the earthern floor. 


A CONSPIRACY. 39 

‘‘Well, father,” said Miss Hericourt presently, “what 
is to be done ? ” 

“ I was thinking, wondering,” he answered. “ I hardly 
like to assume the responsibility of advising you.” There 
was an irresolution in his tone which was unusual. 

“ Cordelia has, it seems, said something about the mat- 
ter herself,” Miss Hericourt continued; “but her idea is 
a strange one, and I hardly think you will agree to it. 
In the course of a conversation held yesterday with Mrs. 
Aldergrove, she expressed the wish that I should go abroad 
with my cousins in case any thing should happen to keep 
her at home. At least, that is what Mrs. Aldergrove tells 
me ; and I presume she speaks the truth. I cannot deny, 
however, that I am unfavorably impressed with Margaret 
as my acquaintance with her progresses. She is very like 
Cordelia, it is true, but only in personal appearance, noth- 
ing more. I fear, father, that she is the possessor of a 
bad temper; and, when I contemplate the idea of taking 
so long a journey with her and her mother, a feeling of 
horror comes over me.” 

Miss Hericourt’s placid countenance, as she made this 
speech, was scarcely in keeping with the idea conveyed ; 
but she rolled her eyes significantly toward the door 
through which the Aldergroves had just passed, and said 
in a low tone, “I am sure, father, they are a couple of 
wicked women.” 

“Oh! hardly that,” replied the priest gravely; “but 
you would not do well, I think, to leave Cordelia here 
alone and ill. It is unfortunate, this sudden indisposition. 
It is not dangerous, I trust .? ” His glance bespoke some- 
thing more than mere inquiry. Miss Hericourt opened 
her lips to answer ; but, before she could do so, a sudden 
deafening tumult was heard from the street. Had the 
entire population of Santa Fe left their houses for the 
purpose of outrivalling each other in shouting and sing- 


40 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


ing ? One would have thought so, indeed, on beholding 
the extraordinary spectacle which met the eyes of Miss 
Hericourt and the priest as they hurried to the window 
to discover, if possible, the cause of the uproar. 

Advancing slowly up the dirty street was a still dirtier 
troop of Mexicans, — men, women, and children, — arrayed 
in all the picturesque brilliancy of their holiday attire, 
and preceded by a well-known citizen, who rejoiced in the 
name of Jesus Maria. His costume was enlivened by a 
number of cotton handkerchiefs of various colors attached 
to a cord about his waist ; and he carried a broken violin, 
upon which several popular airs were squeaked out with 
well-defined discord, as he walked along with an exagger- 
ated, mincing gait, his head nodding from side to side, 
like that of a porcelain Chinese mandarin. The company 
of men and women who followed him were singing bois- 
terously, if, indeed, the hideous noise which characterized 
their performance could be dignified by the name of sing- 
ing ; and behind them, borne aloft upon a table, sat a doll, 
similar to those which ornamented the Hericourts’ sitting- 
room. It was dressed with great attempt at magnificence, 
its white satin gown and gold lace contrasting ludicrously 
with its painted cheeks and heavy black mustache. A 
Mexican, decorated with much gold braid and fringe, 
walked on each side of this absurd figure, holding up care- 
fully a dilapidated umbrella, as though to protect the saint 
from the hot sun, which streamed down upon the motley 
throng. A large mob of disorderly persons completed the 
procession, which passed slowly and solemnly along. 

Padre Lament sighed, and turned away from the win- 
dow in a few moments ; while Miss Hericourt, to whom 
this grotesque parade was a novelty, looked at him inquir- 
ingly. 

“I cannot tell you,” he said, ‘‘how discouraging it is to 
witness such exhibitions. This is the method these peo- 


A CONSPIRACY. 


41 


pie take of praying for rain. It grieves me to see how 
little impressed they are by the earnest labor performed 
in their behalf. Sometimes I quite despair of ever bet- 
tering their condition ; but I do not intend to give up,” 
he added, with a faint smile. And now, to return to our 
interrupted conversation, would it be possible for me to 
see Cordelia } She cannot be dangerously ill. She is 
not too ill to speak to me } ” 

Oh, no ! ” Miss Hericourt replied composedly. “ She 
particularly desires to see you. Dr. Baldwin says there 
is no immediate cause for alarm, but he recommends rest 
for some time to come. If you will follow me, father, I 
will take you to her.” 

They rose to leave the apartment as she finished 
speaking; the priest walking with bowed head, and hands 
clasped upon his breast, until, under Miss Hericourt’s 
guidance, he entered the darkened room where Cordelia 
lay. 


CHAPTER VI. 


PERSUADED. 


“ A man in the presence of his tyrant has no character and no opinions. Thamas 
Kouli Kan once supped with a courtier. A new sort of pulse was served. ‘ How 
pleasing and wholesome is this pulse ! ’ said the monarch. ‘ Nothing more pleasing 
and wholesome,’ said the courtier. After supper Thamas Kouli Kan felt indisposed. 
He could not sleep. When he rose, he said, ‘ There is nothing more detestable and 
unwholesome than that pulse.’ — ‘ Nothing more detestable and unwholesome,’ repeated 
the courtier. ‘ But,’ said the monarch, ‘ you did not think so last night. What has 
changed your opinion ? ’ — ‘ Sirrah,’ replied the courtier, ‘ I am the slave cxf your Ma- 
jesty, and not that of the pulse. 1 can now, therefore, curse the latter with impunity.’ ” 

There was a small bed standing in one corner of the 
room, and a square piece of carpet covered the floor. In 
the dim light Padre Lament could distinguish Cordelia’s 
form and the figure of a Mexican girl, who had been tem- 
porarily engaged as nurse. The latter was sitting near the 
head of the bed, rocking her body backward and forward 
with a jerky sort of movement. In her hands she held a 
rosary, which she pressed to her lips from time to time, 
with muttered ejaculations and disconnected bits of prayer ; 
but, on seeing Miss Hericourt and the priest enter, she rose 
hastily, and retreated to a distant corner, where the gloom 
partly concealed her. 

Cordelia was lying motionless, with her eyes fixed va- 
cantly upon the opposite wall ; and, as Padre Lamont 
bent over her, no sign of recognition was visible on her 
face. 

“ My poor child, I am truly grieved to see you thus,” he 


42 


PERSUADED. 


43 


said, speaking in a low tone. “ Can I be of any help to 
you 1 ” 

She turned her eyes toward him, but did not reply. Sud- 
denly she started up, pushing back impatiently the heavy 
masses of dark hair which fell over her temples and across 
her breast. 

“ Where are the boxes } ” she exclaimed. “ Give them 
to me. They are filled with gold ; and it is mine, — all 
mine. But first get the spade, and dig, — deeper — still 
deeper. Ah! there they are at last! Six — eight” — 
Then, laying her hand upon the priest’s arm, she added 
gently, “ Help me to carry them. They are so heavy that 
I cannot lift them.” 

Miss Hericourt’s small gray eyes opened to their fullest 
extent. ‘‘Why, she is delirious!” she exclaimed. “What 
is to be done now, father.^ How shall we discover what 
she wishes to do about the journey She does not recog- 
nize either of us. Nothing more unfortunate than this 
could have occurred. Juana, you are a wicked girl,” she 
added, turning to the Mexican. “Why did you not come 
to call me, as I told you to do if she became worse } How 
long has she been in this state } Come here and answer 
me at once.” 

As Miss Hericourt’s conversation was perfectly unin- 
telligible to the natives of Santa Fe, being composed 
chiefly of English, with here and there a word of badly pro- 
nounced Spanish, the foregoing questions had to be re- 
peated by Padre Lament before Juana could be made to 
understand what was required of her. She stood in some 
awe of the priest, and came forward reluctantly as he spoke 
to her, still clasping her rosary with trembling fingers. 
She was of medium height ; and her dull black hair, olive 
skin, and full red lips, combined, as they were, with large, 
expressive eyes, would have formed a pleasing enough ex- 
terior, had not an unsavory and generally unwashed ap- 


44 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


pearance accompanied them. She was dressed in several 
petticoats of different colors, worn one over the other, and 
arranged so that a few inches of each was visible. A 
remarkable feature of the New-Mexican character is the 
fact, that every one wears his or her entire wardrobe at 
once. As many shirts or petticoats as man or woman may 
happen to possess are put on, one over the other, with a 
startling disregard for comfort ; and it may even be said, 
that a person’s social standing depends in a measure upon 
the amount and variety of his clothes. Juana’s collection 
was not one by any means to be despised. Her petticoats 
were four in number : and on each side of her waist hung 
a bright cotton handkerchief, obviously, however, not in- 
tended for use ; as a close inspection of the rebosa covering 
her head might have tended to show. 

She answered Padre Lament’s questions somewhat 
sullenly, declaring she was unable to tell how long the 
senorita had been acting so queerly. It might have been 
an hour, it might have been two. She could only recollect 
definitely, that the senorita had suddenly started up, 
laughing like a very demon, and saying things which 
sounded strange. Overcome with terror, Juana had only 
been able to seize her beads, and call upon the Holy Vir- 
gin for protection. 

She was a voluble person, like the rest of her class, and 
would, doubtless, have continued in this strain for some 
time, had not the priest cut short her discourse by bidding 
her go at once for Dr. Baldwin,, a command which the girl 
obeyed willingly. 

Cordelia still continued to talk in a random, excited 
manner; and all attempts to rouse in her a spark of proper 
intelligence proved useless. In vain did Padre Lament 
question her in regard to her conversation with Mrs. 
Aldergrove ; endeavoring, by going carefully over the 
events of the past few days, to restore her to something 


PERSCTADED. 


45 


approaching rationality. She was clearly hopelessly de- 
lirious. 

While waiting for Dr. Baldwin, there was silence for a 
time, broken only by the sound of Cordelia’s voice making 
assertions about the money, incongruously mingled with 
exclamations in regard to the voyage, and prayers to the 
end that she might be aided by Divine Will in her under- 
taking. 

It is possible that Miss Hericourt was affected by her 
niece’s sudden and serious illness ; but, if so, she kept her 
feelings entirely to herself, only displaying the partly un- 
settled state of her mind by occasionally rising from her 
chair to pace the floor with a slow, measured tread. 

Padre Lament sat quietly by the bedside, his gaze now 
fixed gloomily upon the carpet, now upon Cordelia’s unre- 
sponsive face. Once, in looking at her, a sudden vague 
emotion swept over him ; and unconsciously he closed his 
eyes, his breath coming and going quickly. Of what was 
he thinking at that moment Something evidently not to 
be entertained for, with a gesture of determination, he 
rose, and going to the window, which was open, pushed 
aside the curtain. 

Before him was a crimson sun, upon a background 
of pale primrose. Just above the edge of its fiery disk 
stretched a long line of purple hills, their outlines well de- 
fined by a narrow band of light, like a golden braid, which, 
lower, merged itself with a delicate rose-colored mist. 
Lower still, long shadows crept stealthily, changing the 
brilliant emerald of the foliage into a dull, lustreless green. 

The priest stood for a while watching the gradual ap- 
proach of twilight descending from above, like a gray 
curtain. He seemed overcome by strong yet indefinable 
feelings, which threatened to master his self-possession. 
The spectacle before him, the calm beauty of the sunset, 
and the painful stillness of the outside world, enabled him 


46 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


finally, though with a visible effort, to shake off his 
abstraction. He turned to Miss Hericourt, and said 
quietly, — 

“ Should Cordelia not recover immediately, is there any 
possibility of obtaining the money without your personal 
application ? ” 

“ I fear not, father,” she answered. “ Were there any 
such possibility, we should never have thought about go- 
ing abroad at all. ^s matters stand now, we must either 
put off the journey indefinitely, which would be annoying 
when the immense distance we have to go is considered, 
or else accept the only alternative.” 

You mean to accompany the Aldergroves, I suppose. 
It would not be right to do so under the circumstances. 
You could not leave Cordelia here alone and ill. Better 
by far lose the money, Miss Hericourt, than have aught 
with which to reproach your conscience.” He spoke seri- 
ously, but Miss Hericourt did not seem to notice the 
tone. 

“Would my conscience reproach me, father.^” she 
asked, with a vacant expression. “ I never thought about 
it in that light, but I understand what you mean. Your 
opinion is worth much more than mine ; and, of course, 
I shall do as you say.” 

At this moment Dr. Baldwin entered the room, and, 
after a few moments’ conversation with Miss Hericourt, 
examined his patient, who had grown quieter. She was 
suffering, he said, from the delirium incidental to the 
fever; and it would be out of the question to attempt 
the proposed journey for some time to come. 

“ But how long will she remain in this horrible state } ” 
asked Miss Hericourt, with perplexed anxiety. 

“ I cannot tell exactly,” answered the doctor. “ It may 
continue off and on for several weeks.” 

“ I think you .should take Dr. Baldwin into your confi- 


PERSUADED. 47 

dence,” said Padre Lament. “ Perhaps he may be able to 
advise you better than I.” 

*‘True,” she answered. “But be kind enough to tell 
him yourself, father. The particulars are confusing, and I 
fear I cannot remember them all correctly. This is, indeed, 
a trying period of my life,” she added impressively. 

The priest accordingly related the whole matter to 
the doctor, mentioning Cordelia’s conversation with Mrs. 
Aldergrove, but at the same time not attempting to hide 
his reluctance to counsel Miss Hericourt to accept her 
cousin’s offer. 

Dr. Baldwin naturally was as adverse to the conceived 
plan as was Padre Lamont. . 

“ I cannot conceal from you. Miss Hericourt,” he said 
decidedly, “that in my opinion such a proceeding would 
be actually heartless. In making the offer, your cousins 
are doubtless actuated by motives of the purest kindness 
and a desire to be of service to your niece ; but it is a mis- 
taken kindness, and you would do wrong to take advantage 
of it. I can only advise you to be patient until the affair 
can be properly managed.” Then, after a few directions 
as to the treatment of Cordelia, he shook hands with Miss 
Hericourt and Padre Lamont, and left the room. 

The latter soon after took his departure also. The room 
had grown unbearable to him ; and he longed to get out 
into the open air, where he could breathe freely. 

Miss Hericourt, left alone with Cordelia, sat quietly in 
the centre of the floor, with her hands folded, as usual, 
in her lap. The door opened softly in a few minutes ; and 
Margaret entered, holding in her hand a lighted lamp, which 
threw its dim, uncertain rays across the bed, and revealed 
the pallor of Cordelia’s features. 

“ Have you spoken to Padre Lamont, cousin 1 ” she 
asked, bending, as she spoke, over Cordelia, and looking 
searchingly at her. 


48 


A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE. 


“Yes, Margaret ; and he thinks as I do, — that my go- 
ing without Cordelia would be preposterous. You do not 
know how ill she is, — that she is delirious.” 

“Yes, I know,” Margaret replied; moving away from 
the bed, and placing the lamp on the table. “ I met Juana 
as she was going for Dr. Baldwin, and she told me. Let 
me sit here beside you, cousin, and talk to you a while ; for 
I have much to say. Padre Lament has advised you not 
to accept our offer, but I was prepared for that. Think, 
however, of how Cordelia herself would regard it. She is 
the one to be considered ; and, in carrying out her wishes, 
you do her a far greater kindness in reality than by re- 
maining here against her will, be she ever so ill. Think 
again before you decide.” 

Now, it was a peculiar feature of Miss Hericourt’s char- 
acter, that it was an absolute necessity for her to lean upon 
some one else, morally speaking. A current theory affirms, 
that half the people in the world are born to command the 
remaining half. And, indeed, had Miss Hericourt been 
the most obscure of slaves, she could not have belonged 
more completely to the latter class. Just at present she 
found herself cut off from her niece’s support, and in con- 
sequence turned involuntarily to Margaret, her dislike to 
the girl fading suddenly away. Margaret understood 
thoroughly all the weak points in the other’s organiza- 
tion, and made haste to turn her advantage to the best 
possible account in the short time she knew was at her 
disposal. 

Poor Miss Hericourt, when brought face to face with 
Margaret’s strongly expressed views and arguments, grad- 
ually found her scruples disappear until nothing remained 
of them but the faintest outlines. She began to think, that, 
after all, Cordelia’s idea was both admirable and expedient ; 
and by degrees she became as anxious to put it into execu- 
tion as a short time previously she had been to avoid it. 


PERSUADED, 


49 


Margaret watched her hesitation and slow yielding with a 
feeling of supreme exultation, and her manner to Miss 
Hericourt became so suave and gentle that the latter won- 
dered how she could ever have misjudged her. Mrs. Alder- 
grove came also, taking her place in the sick-room, and 
performing tenderly all the little delicate attentions so 
necessary to invalids. Miss Hericourt soon came to the 
conclusion, that her cousins were deserving of her highest 
regard ; and little by little she glided, unconsciously almost, 
into their plan. 

By bedtime that night, after much adroit conversation 
on the part of the Aldergroves, and some very weak resist- 
ance from Miss Hericourt, it was finally decided that the 
three wornen should go to France together, while Cordelia 
remained in Santa Fe, to be cared for by the good sisters 
of Our Lady of Guadaloupe. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE WHIP-HAND. 

11 y a un pays oil les joies sont visibles, mais fausses, et les chagrins caches, mais 
r4els.” — La Bruy^re. 

On leaving Miss Hericourt, Padre Lament went to the 
rooms which he occupied in the house of a well-to-do 
Mexican. They were two in number, one serving as bed- 
room, the other as study. He entered the latter, and, 
lighting the lamp, sat down before his table. Every avail- 
able space in the apartment was occupied by books, — 
French, Latin, English, — from whose worn and dusty 
bindings a dull atmosphere seemed to emanate. Writing 
materials, volumes of reference, and pamphlets, were piled 
high upon the table, together with pages of closely written 
manuscript. 

For some time the priest sat motionless, his head 
resting upon his hands, lost in thought apparently. His 
temples throbbed painfully, and confused images passed 
through his mind in rapid succession. He took up a book 
presently, and read a few paragraphs ; but his attention 
refused to fix itself : and in a few moments he threw the 
volume aside, and, stretching forth his hand, extinguished 
the lamp. Then a flood of light streamed in through the 
window, making a broad silver path across the earthen 
floor, extending up the rough wall, and resting upon the 
crucifix of ebony and ivory that hung there. The priest 


THE WHIP-HAND. 


51 


rose from his chair impulsively, and, approaching the cru- 
cifix, fell upon his knees, and bowed his head reverently. 
The moonlight touched his hair and a portion of his black 
robe. 

He remained thus, praying, for nearly an hour, hardly 
conscious that the ideas which hitherto had assailed him 
vaguely were assuming definite forms. He knew, however, 
that he seemed to be drifting far away from divine pro- 
tection into gloom and shadow, peopled with indistinct 
shapes which momentarily grew clearer and more terrible. 
The truth which lay slumbering in the depths of his soul 
was now breaking forth into the broad light of day, and 
see it he must. 

He rose finally, and, entering his bedroom, threw him- 
self down to sleep. His long-pent-up emotions had partly 
expended themselves in that burst of agonized prayer, and 
he felt calmer than he had done for some time. 

On the following morning, however, he was unrefreshed 
by the short repose he had had. He went to the window, 
and watched the daybreak, inhaling at the same time the 
cool morning air which came into the room. The eastern 
sky was flushed with pale scarlet, streaked with gold ; and 
the whole atmosphere seemed to catch the rosy reflection. 
In the street below, a troop of noisy Mexicans passed by, 
on their way to the river to bathe. 

Padre Lament made a hasty toilet, and, entering his 
study, knelt for a moment in silent prayer, feeling, as he 
did so, a sense of tranquillity and resignation. He almost 
smiled as he recalled his vehement outburst of the night 
before, looking back upon it with undisturbed composure. 
He wondered at his impetuosity. What had caused that 
tempest of emotion } Surely, the reason to which he had 
attributed it was merely a fancy born of his own vivid 
imagination, and wanting in actual support. He had been 
building suppositions upon a most unsubstantial basis ; and 


52 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


he now found, much to his relief, that he was able to con- 
template Cordelia in fancy, with sentiments of unimpas- 
sioned affection. No fiery agitation mingled itself with 
his present thought of her, and he was conscious of hav- 
ing gained another victory over himself. In being allowed 
to direct a pure soul toward God, he enjoyed a blessed 
privilege, and one which should amply satisfy him. He 
knew that his influence had prompted Cordelia to devote 
her newly acquired fortune and her life to the highest ser- 
vice permitted on earth, but with this reflection came a 
feeling of sadness he was powerless to control. And then 
Cordelia’s illness and Miss Aldergrove’s proposition oc- 
curred to him. It did not seem possible that Miss Heri- 
court would take advantage of the offer. That she was 
intensely weak, and open to any strong influence, he was 
aware ; but he was convinced of her affection for her niece, 
and did not suppose she would leave the girl helpless and 
ill, in order that a sum of money might be procured within 
a given time. 

All these things passed rapidly through his mind as he 
made himself a cup of coffee by the aid of a small spirit- 
lamp. The day had begun its course; and, where the 
moonbeams had rested the night before, the yellow sunlight 
now danced joyously. There was something in this calm 
brilliancy which brought a sense of repose and quiet en- 
joyment to him. He shook off his abstraction finally, and 
sat down to his table to write, just as Jose, the Hericourts’ 
servant, knocked at the door, and then, entering, handed 
him a note. The priest took it mechanically, and broke 
the seal. The note read as follows: — 

“My dear Padre Lamont, — You will doubtless be surprised 
on reading this; and I fear the intelligence I have to impart may also 
annoy you to some extent, although the lenity with which you have 
always treated my shortcomings gives me no reason to expect your 
grave displeasure. The matter is this : Since my interview with you 
yesterday, I have decided to accept the proposition made by my 


THE WHIP-HAND. 


53 


cousins, who are, I have discovered, very different from what I im- 
agined them to be, and thoroughly worthy of my esteem and affection. 
1 shall go with them to France, and endeavor to obtain Cordelia’s for- 
tune and my own unaided. Whether this plan will be successful or 
not can only be determined by time ; but, should my efforts prove una 
vailing, Cordelia can join me abroad whenever her health will permit 
her to do so. I shall communicate my success or failure to you as 
soon as possible ; and I rely upon your kindness, dear father, to make 
the necessary arrangements should Cordelia be obliged to follow me. 

“ Mrs. Aldergrove and her daughter will accompany me only as far 
as Havre, whence they intend to start for an extended tour of the Con- 
tinent, leaving me to go to Avignon. My great regret is, that I must 
leave Cordelia ; but it is mitigated by the thought that she will be in 
excellent hands at the convent, and that I am merely carrying out her 
own desire, expressed a few days ago to Mrs. Aldergrove. Should 
you have any suggestions to make, dear father, before we leave Santa 
Fe, which will be on the day after to-morrow, I beg that you will com- 
municate them to me without delay. I should also be glad to consult 
with you in regard to placing my niece in the convent. She still 
remains in the same horrible condition, and talks continually about 
the money. 

“ With heartfelt thanks, dear father, for your many attentions dur- 
ing the past trying days, believe me your very devoted daughter, 

“Anastasia Hericourt.” 

The reading of the above caused complex emotions to 
^ take possession of the priest. To his experienced eyes it 
was evident that another hand than Miss Hericourt’s had 
superintended the writing of the letter. He feared in- 
stinctively that she had unwittingly been led by Margaret 
and her mother, though he conceived of no motive which 
could induce them to persuade Miss Hericourt to go 
abroad without her niece. He resolved to make one more 
attempt in Cordelia’s behalf ; so, throwing the letter upon 
the table, he took his hat from a wooden peg on the wall, 
and went directly to the Hericourts’ house. 

Jose, who admitted him, bade him enter the sitting-room, 
where Miss Hericourt was found seated with Margaret. 

A faint color came into the older lady’s cheeks as the 


54 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


priest entered, his face wearing an unusually grave ex- 
pression. Margaret rose, as if to leave the room ; but 
Miss Hericourt, with evident embarrassment, begged her 
to remain, saying that nothing of a private nature was to 
be discussed. 

“You received my note, father.^” she asked, fixing her 
expressionless eyes upon him. 

“Yes,” he answered : “it is on that account that I am 
here. I fear. Miss Hericourt,” he continued, after a pause, 
“ you have decided hurriedly, and without properly weigh- 
ing the consequences of your action. Why should you be 
in such haste to secure this money A few weeks’ delay 
cannot be of material importance. The fortune is yours 
and Cordelia’s. Whenever you claim it, be it now or two 
months hence, it will be placed in your hands. Besides, 
have you no scruples about leaving your niece ? ” 

“ Scruples ? Oh, yes ! of course I have,” replied Miss 
Hericourt calmly. “ I think I told you so particularly in 
my note. But I am not leaving Cordelia alone, father. 
She will go to the convent, and be well cared for there ; 
receiving, indeed, far more attention than we could give 
her. As to the haste, it does not seem to me unnatural. 
Cordelia may remain ill for weeks ; and, even should she 
then recover, she will be too feeble probably to undertake 
a journey. Think, father, of the work to be done with 
this money. Cordelia, I am sure, would bid me go with- 
out delay. You know how greatly her heart is set upon 
this enterprise.” 

“You are right, cousin,” said Margaret. “It would be 
absurd to defer the journey indefinitely; and, since my 
mother and I have decided to go abroad, you could have 
no better opportunity for carrying out Cordelia’s plan. I 
am sure,” she added, turning to the priest, “that Miss 
Hericourt will have no difficulty in securing the fortune. 
But, my dear cousin, what do you mean by speaking of 


THE WHIP-HAND. 


55 


work to be done with this money ? Have you already 
decided upon your manner of spending it ? Remember 
the story of the boy and his basket of eggs.” She spoke 
with attempted playfulness ; but there was an unpleasant 
light in her eyes, which did not escape Padre Lament’s 
keen perception. 

“ Can it be possible,” exclaimed Miss Hericourt, clasp- 
ing her fat hands, “that I forgot to tell you that portion 
of the arrangement ? My dear Margaret, Cordelia is a 
very good Catholic, — a much better one than I am, al- 
though I shall always remain faithful to our holy religion. 
Cordelia, however, is a saint; and she has decided to found 
an order with this money, and strive by this means to 
educate the ignorant New-Mexican girls. It will be a 
glorious work, will it not } ” 

Margaret did not reply directly. Her eyes were half- 
closed, and her lips tightly compressed. “ I heard Cor- 
delia say something of this sort last evening,” she said 
presently, speaking slowly and distinctly, “ but I supposed 
her words to be merely the ravings of delirium. Other- 
wise I can hardly imagine any one contemplating such a 
thing. However, some particular influence, doubtless, in- 
stigated the idea.” She cast a sidelong glance at the 
priest. 

Padre Lamont returned the look frankly. “The hope 
that this work would one day be accomplished has long 
been cherished by me. Miss Aldergrove,” he said ; “and I 
have often expressed it to Miss Hericourt and her niece. 
If this can be called influencing them, then certainly I 
have done so.. Had I employed more decided means to- 
ward the desired end, that is, had I actually asked them 
to use this money, as they, of their own free will, have con- 
cluded to do, I should not feel that I had acted improperly. 
It is my fervent wish, as well as my duty, to advance the 
interests of the Church ; and whatever tends to gratify 


56 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


this ambition cannot be otherwise than commendable. I 
do not think Miss Hericourt and her niece could have put 
their money to a better use.’* 

“ Perhaps not,” said Margaret, with dignity. “ But, my 
dear cousin, I think I will now go to Cordelia. Padre 
Lament has probably some advice to offer which it would 
not interest me to hear. I will return later.” 

‘‘Ah! do not go, Margaret,” cried Miss Hericourt, who 
dreaded being left alone with the priest, for fear she might 
inadvertently change her mind. “Padre Lament, I am 
sure, has nothing to say which ” — 

“You are right,” he interrupted quickly. “I have 
nothing to say. Miss Hericourt. As your priest and 
friend, my advice has already been proffered : therefore I 
have finished. Be assured that all will be done for Cor- 
delia’s comfort during your absence.” He rose to go as 
he spoke. “ If there is any thing that I can do for you, 
pray command me.” He uttered the words in so con- 
strained a tone, that Miss Hericourt looked up in faint 
surprise. 

“ If you will kindly make arrangements at the convent,” 
she faltered, with a slight feeling of shame. 

“ Certainly. It shall be done immediately. I shall 
come again, to bid you farewell. I cannot stop to see 
Cordelia this morning, as I am rather pressed for time.” 
He shook hands gravely with Miss Hericourt, and, bowing 
formally to Margaret, left the room. 

Miss Hericourt rolled her eyes from side to side with 
some evidence of uneasiness. “ O Margaret I ” she said, 
“I fear he is greatly displeased with me. Had we not 
better give it up } There is really no use in it, after all. 
Padre Lament is right.” 

“‘No use in it.? ’’’echoed Margaret sharply. “Why, 
surely you will not go back upon your word now that our 
arrangements are made. How childish you are!” she 


THE WHIP-HAND. 


57 


added, more gently. ‘‘You never know your own mind 
from one moment to the other. Last evening you thought 
Cordelia’s plan would be a pleasing diversion after your 
recent suffering, and now you ask me to release you from 
your promise. It would be too absurd to give up the idea 
at this late hour.” 

“ Certainly it would,” said Miss Hericourt feebly. “ I 
was only joking. What a comfort it is,” she added reflec- 
tively, “ to have some one at hand upon whom you can 
rely. Now, Padre Lament is an excellent man, and I am 
devotedly attached to him ; but then, he is a man : and 
only a woman can thoroughly comprehend another woman. 
It is for this reason that I could never make up my mind 
to marry. Men are so selfish, that their opinions are of no 
value in themselves. I like good, strong, sensible women, 
such as you and Cordelia. I have faith in your ideas.” 

“That is right,” said Margaret approvingly. “Of 
course, I am inferior to Cordelia ; but I am willing to do 
all I can for you. Shall we go now, and see how my 
cousin is ? ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE DEPARTURE. 

“ Full of strange oaths. Sudden and quick in quarrel.” 

The day but one following was that appointed for the 
departure from Santa Fe, and at nine o’clock that morning 
the stage-coach stood in the plaza in readiness for the long 
and tedious journey to the United States. There were 
four enormous horses attached to the vehicle, and the 
driver had already seized his whip and reins. To judge 
from the muttered exclamations expressive of disappoint- 
ment, which now and then escaped him, he was waiting 
impatiently for the signal to depart. His assistant — 
guard, he would have been called in England, although he 
was in reality nothing more than a cook and general helper 

— stood on the sidewalk beneath the roof of the portal^ 

looking first in one direction and then in another, giving 
vent unhesitatingly to the far from amiable feelings which 
filled his breast. His remarks were made in a strange 
mixture of English and Spanish, and consisted principally 
of oaths more forcible than elegant. The passengers, 
likewise loud in their complaints, were all in their places 

— no, not all, for there were still three vacant seats at the 
rear end of the conveyance ; and it was evident, from the 
language used, that the persons who intended to occupy 
them were keeping the stage waiting by persisting in their 
non-appearance. All along the dusty street for some dis- 

58 


THE DEPARTURE. 


59 


tance, and under the portal^ stood a motley crowd of sol- 
diers, teamsters, and Mexicans, who kept up a running 
commentary on the incidents of the situation, while at 
the same time they seemed to enjoy the discomfiture 
of the driver and his partner. 

“ How much longer am I to wait for them women, Fd 
like to know ? ” inquired the former presently of the stage- 
agent, who stood by the door of the vehicle, talking with a 
passenger. “ Here’s just one hour lost of the best part of 
the day ; and Fve got to get to Tecalote to-night if I bust 
all the traces there is in the world, and keep the critters 
a-goin’ till midnight.” 

“ I can’t imagine what keeps them,” replied the agent. 
“ Their baggage has been here an hour. Fll send round 
and see ; and if they don’t come in another half-hour, why, 
just you go ahead without them. They’ll have to follow 
in the next stage, or else stay in Santa Fe.” 

“ It’s an infernal nuisance, that’s what it is ! ” said the 
driver with a growl. “If there’s any thing wrong, ten 
chances to one there’s a woman in the case ; and now 
there’s three on ’em. What women want in a country like 
this. Padre Lament himself couldn’t tell to save him ; and 
he’s just the smartest man as ever I came across.” 

“ Who are they, anyway ? ” inquired a passenger, who 
was a sutler’s clerk on his way to St. Louis to purchase 
supplies. 

“ Miss Hericourt, Miss Cordelia Hericourt, and Mrs. 
Aldergrove,” replied the agent, reading from the way-list 
he held in his hands. “You know Major Hericourt, who 
was killed by the Navajos last month ? Well, these are all 
kin of his, — one’s his daughter, and one’s his sister, and 
the other’s his something or other, — I don’t know exactly 
what. If it wa’n’t for the circumstances of the case,” he 
added, assuming an air of importance, ‘‘damn me if I’d 
stop the stage five minutes for them. But you see, the 


6o 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


major was true blue if ever there was one, and he died 
like a soldier. Taking this into consideration, it’s little 
enough to wait a while for his sister and his orphan 
daughter.” 

“ Oh ! wait for them by all means,” said another passen- 
ger, a big, broad-chested man, with a face of unusual intel- 
ligence. “They will be partly under my charge until we 
reach Independence.” 

“ Oh, ho ! under your charge, eh. Professor ! ” exclaimed 
a good-natured looking German. “And now tell us 
whether Mrs. Hoveden does not object to your travelling 
eight hundred miles in a stage-coach with three young 
ladies under your charge.” 

“ No, Mr. Glatz, she does not,” replied the other delib- 
erately. “Nor is it remarkable when we consider that two 
of the young ladies are fifty years old apiece, and that 
there is said to be safety in numbers, and, further, that I 
am a respectable member of society, a teacher, and the 
head of a promising family.” 

“ I wish my wife would act that way,” said Glatz. “ But 
she is as jealous of me as was Francisquita of Rafael 
Torres. You know, she stuck a knife into his heart be- 
cause he picked up another woman’s fan. Not that Mrs. 
Glatz would murder me after that Mexican fashion,” he 
added after an expressive pause, “but she’d be certain 
sure to make things so devilish unpleasant that I’d end 
by throwing myself into the Rio Grande.” 

“Well, if you did, it wouldn’t drown you,” said, with a 
broad grin, a teamster near by. “ I crossed it last week, 
and it scarcely wet my horse’s feet. But we never knew 
before that Mrs. Glatz was a jealous woman.” 

“Oh! I don’t object on the whole,” said Glatz com- 
placently. “She thinks me very attractive, — much too 
attractive for such work as escorting ladies to Independ- 
ence.” 


THE DEPARTURE. 


6l 


‘‘Well ! ” cried the driver with sudden vehemence. “ I’ll 
be totally blowed to everlasting smash if I wait here an- 
other minute ! Here’s all the passengers a-grumblin’ and 
a-growlin’ like a family of grizzlies. But,” he added, as 
though he had reconsidered his determination, “ I’ll give 
’em five more minutes ; and then, if they don’t come, off I 
goes, or some one else will take this ’ere stage to Inde- 
pendence.” 

“ Start ’em off. Bill ! ” cried a soldier, wearing the uni- 
form of the United-States Infantry. “Don’t you let ’em 
come it over you any longer. I heard last night that your 
aunt in St. Louis died a couple of weeks ago, and left you 
five hundred dollars, always provided you called for it in 
person before the first of August. Rum old lady, that ! ” 
continued the speaker reflectively. “But every hour 
counts. Bill. It’s going to be nip and tuck with you any- 
how ; so cut ’em up, my boy, and go off in a gallop.” 

“Bill don’t care for no money!” exclaimed a deep bass 
voice belonging to a burly by-stander. “ He’s raked up 
about all the cash there was in the camp, playing monte. 
His pockets is just lined with doubloons and eagles, and 
two hundred dollars of ’em was mine. He’s going on a 
weddin’ tower when he gets to the States.” 

“Yes: he’s got a girl in Independence, sure,” cried a 
second teamster, who stood on the outskirts of the crowd, 
cutting with his. whip at the beetles that ran about in the 
sand. “ He promised to marry her on the twenty-ninth of 
July ; and, if he don’t get there in tirne, she’s a-goin’ to take 
up with Jim Baylor. Jim’s a man of his word, he is ; and 
he’s got just the prettiest ranch near Vegas as ever I seed. 
He don’t drive no stage for a livin’, nor play monte either, 
always to win.” 

A loud burst of laughter at the driver’s expense greeted 
this sally, and the speaker looked about him with a smile 
of satisfaction. 


62 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


‘‘ If you come inside the reach of this whip,” cried the 
former, white with rage, “Til give you something to re- 
member me by until I come back, and then I’ll smash your 
darned ugly mug. You’ll find out then that I’m a man of 
my word too.” 

“ So it’s a gal, after all,” remarked the soldier calmly, 
while a fresh burst of noisy laughter broke from the crowd. 
“And to see how that same Bill led off in the fandango 
last night with Juanita! no wonder he’s in a hurry. He 
wants to get to Independence before his gal hears of his 
goin’s on in Santa Fe. But it’s no use. He can’t do it 
with them horses. I’ll go my pile on Jim Baylor and his 
ranch.” 

“You will, will you.^” roared the driver, roused to the 
highest pitch of anger, “you d — d, wallowing, lazy dough- 
boy ! I’ll just settle your hash now!” He^flung down 
the reins, and prepared to descend hastily from his lofty 
seat. Just as he placed his foot on the wheel, the stage- 
agent ran forward, and detained him. 

“Hold on, Bill, none of that now! ” he exclaimed in an 
undertone. ‘^Here they are at last !” 

As he spoke, a carriage drove up to the portal ; and three 
ladies, descending from it, remained standing for a moment 
on the sidewalk. They were dressed alike in plain black, 
and long crape veils concealed their faces. The crowd, 
which had become suddenly silent, gave way respectfully, 
especially the military portion of it. Then the stage-door 
was opened ; and, without a word, the ladies quickly en- 
tered the vehicle, taking the places reserved for them. 

One of the passengers, a little girl apparently nine or 
ten years of age, who had been clinging tightly to a gen- 
tleman sitting beside her, raised her large eyes to his. 
“ O papa ! ” she exclaimed, “ I was so afraid they were 
going to fight. But now the ladies have come, and they 
will not quarrel any more.” 


THE DEPARTURE. 


63 


The gentleman assented, drawing the child still closer 
to him. Bill Taylor, contenting himself with shaking his 
fist at his military opponent, who replied by the equally 
expressive gesture of pulling down the corner of his left 
eye, gathered up the reins ; while his assistant took his 
place on the box. 

Then, with three cheers from the crowd, and a crack 
from Bill’s long whip, rendered more emphatic by the state 
of his mind, the horses sprang forward with the stage, fol- 
lowed by the light wagon containing the luggage and pro- 
visions. 

On they went, past the unimposing cathedral, and out 
of the plaza along the narrow road which, owing to its 
high adobe walls, allows no view of the surrounding 
country to be obtained. The dust rose in thick clouds 
as the long, lumbering conveyance, with its tender, the 
wagon, dashed on. Dogs barked ; and dirty Mexican 
children, and equally dirty women, rushed to the doors of 
their huts, to catch a parting glimpse of the vehicles. 

Presently, however, all habitations were left behind ; and 
our travellers found themselves out on the desolate plain, 
upon which no sign of vegetation was visible, save the 
faded, stunted grass, with here and there a small plant or 
bush rising above it. 


CHAPTER IX. 


OUR LADY OF GUADALOUPE. 

“ VoiU ou vous en etes, vous autres ; vous croyez que le meme bonheur est fait 
pour tous. Quelle etrange vision.” — Diderot. 

The convent of Our Lady of Guadaloupe was by far the 
most elegant and dignified structure of which Sante Fe 
could boast. To be sure, it was built of adohcy like the 
rest of the houses ; and it could lay claim to no exterior 
decoration : but it was two stories high ; the gilt cross sur- 
mounting its roof was larger than that which ornamented 
the cathedral ; and extensive grounds surrounded the 
building, which was hidden, in a measure, from the pro- 
fane gaze of the outside world by high, massive walls, 
painted red. In the garden quite a luxuriant vegetation 
was visible, and the Superior herself might sometimes be 
seen anxiously inspecting the growth of the roses and 
geraniums. Masses of brilliant flowers peeped from be- 
tween the tall spires of grass, while the atmosphere was 
far purer than that which pervaded the dirty streets. A 
broad path, bordered on each side with crimson carnations, 
which cast their spicy fragrance in all directions, led from 
the tall iron gate, facing the thoroughfare outside, to the 
convent-door; and in front of this entrance a fountain 
splashed lazily into a marble basin. 

Within, the rooms were furnished with a severe simpli- 
city, as befitted the abode of those who had renounced the 
64 


OUR LADY OF GUADALOUFE. 


65 


woH^d and the flesh. With the exception of the refectory, 
the reception-parlor, and the Superior’s room, they each 
contained a small iron bedstead, a plain wooden table, 
and two chairs. Over the bed hung a crucifix; and, in 
another part of the room, an unframed portrait of the 
Madonna was nailed against the wall. A basin filled with 
holy water was fastened to each door, and surmounted by 
a cross. 

It was to one of these cheerless rooms that Cordelia 
had been consigned on the day preceding Miss Heri- 
court’s departure for France. Padre Lamont had at- 
tended to all the necessary arrangements for the girl’s 
removal, and, in so doing, had felt, unconsciously, some- 
thing more than the mere gratification of serving a friend. 
He was happier and more composed than he had been for 
some time, but attributed this sense of well-being to the 
occupation of the moment, which he imagined turned his 
mind from the contemplation of self to another and more 
disinterested point. He did not perceive that the mere 
fact of this being the case was but another and stronger 
proof of his infatuation. As yet, he was not aware of how 
completely his identity had merged itself with that of Cor- 
delia ; being confident of his moral strength, and glorying 
in his self-knowledge and his power of self-government. 
Much earnest study, indeed, had been required, in order 
to discover his precise condition ; but, now that he had 
found it, he proceeded calmly and deliberately to better 
it. The struggle had been a fierce one, and yet he had 
conquered. Many times, with an emotion that amounted 
nearly to ecstasy, his whole soul had gone out in a prayer 
of fervent thankfulness. His desire to remain faithful to 
his trust had overcome his weakness and irresolution, and 
gradually the shadows which had darkened his mind were 
one by one removed. 

Paul Lament’s character was a strange mixture of pas- 


66 


A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE. 


sion and stoicism. At times indifferent, almost callous, 
at others vehement and zealous, he presented in himself 
an extraordinary contradiction. He had entered the 
priesthood at an early age, resolving to devote his entire 
life to God’s service. Earthly love he had hitherto looked 
upon as a passion not by any means to be entertained by 
a strong nature in which intellect predominated. He had 
likewise little respect for those who yielded to any feeling 
for the sake of temporary gratification, and, being endowed 
with much force of will himself, had that utter contempt for 
weakness which only those who have never been in the 
presence of temptation display. And, in the beginning of 
his career as a spiritual adviser, he had constantly mani- 
fested toward the shortcomings of others the merciless 
criticism which youth alone is apt to call forth. A man 
who lacked the strength necessary to overcome a habit or 
a sentiment was, in his opinion, a despicable object ; and 
this, perhaps, had been the greatest fault in Lament’s char- 
acter. Since he had met Cordelia Hericourt his views, 
though intrinsically unchanged, had been modified to some 
extent. Having at last battled with temptation in one of 
its worst forms, he could look with more tolerance upon 
the deficiencies of mankind in general, even when the 
struggle for redemption was feeble or unsuccessful. The 
ordeal through which he had just passed, with so much 
agony, had given to his nature the touch of humanity 
which it required for its development into higher excel- 
lence, and had served, also, to bring forth many latent 
qualities which he did not dream he possessed. Looking 
back upon it all, he did not regret the conflict. His good 
sense and elevated mind brought before him many things 
which otherwise might have escaped his penetration, or 
revealed themselves when too late to admit of a remedy. 

Two or three days passed by uneventfully after Miss 
Hericourt’s departure. Padre Lament had not deemed it 


OUR LADY OF GUADALOUPE. 


67 


advisable to see Cordelia at once, — why, he could hardly 
have told, except, perhaps, that the delirium which still 
continued cut off all hope of recognition on her part. She 
had been placed under the care of Sister Josefa, and in- 
structions had been left with the Superior that he should 
be sent for in case any sudden change for the worse were 
to occur. 

One morning as he sat sipping his coffee, and trying at 
the same time to fix his attention upon a book beside him, 
a note was brought to him from the convent. As he 
opened it, he became conscious of a vague feeling of ap- 
prehension ; and he laid the sheet down for a moment 
irresolutely. When he finally unfolded it, and read the 
contents, it was with a sense of surprise and pleasure. 
Sister Josefa wrote to say that Cordelia was quite composed 
and rational once more, and had expressed her desire to 
Dr. Baldwin that Padre Lament should come to see her. 
A postscript in the Superior’s handwriting was added to 
the note, stating that as yet Cordelia knew nothing of the 
circumstances attending her removal to the convent, and 
that all thought it advisable for the priest to acquaint her 
with the particulars, as he represented the intimate friend 
of the family. 

It would be difficult to describe Padre Lament’s varied 
emotions as he read these lines. A feeling of joy, so in- 
tense that it almost startled him, rose suddenly within his 
breast. For a while he sat gazing fixedly at the note as if 
in doubt of its reality : then, rising quickly, he tossed his 
book aside, and, taking his hat, went out into the street. 

It was a perfect summer morning. The sky was a deep, 
cloudless blue, and the air soft and delicious. In the dis- 
tance rose the same low range of hills that the priest had 
watched from Cordelia’s window a few days ago, but a 
delicate violet mist now enveloped them instead of the 
sunset hues of scarlet and gold. The street along which 


68 


A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE, 


he walked was bordered on each side by trees covered with 
pale pink blossoms, which, as the breeze swayed them, 
fell at his feet in a rosy shower. 

In the broad plaza Mexicans of all ages were seated on 
the ground. The men lazily smoked their cigarettes. The 
women conversed in drawling accents, or else slept. There 
was the reckless indolence about the whole scene which is 
typical of Mexican life. The children, nearly all of them 
naked, alone showed any signs of vitality. They ran 
about, collecting dirt and pebbles, which they threw at one 
another with shrill cries of delight ; their slight, erect 
forms and bronzed skins looking effective against the 
background of brilliant color formed by the dresses of 
the others. 

As the priest passed by, they all greeted him, displaying 
a momentary animation. He paused for a moment to 
speak to one or two in his low, courteous tone, and then 
continued his way toward the convent, which was but a 
short distance off. 

One of the sisters admitted him ; and, after a short de- 
lay, he was shown to Cordelia’s room. A strange sense 
of trepidation overcame him as he crossed the threshold, 
and penetrated the semi-obscurity. Sister Josefa, a tall, 
graceful woman, rose from her seat, and advanced to meet 
him. He uttered a few words to her, going toward the 
bed as he did so, with a look of^ anxious inquiry. Cordelia 
lay with her face to the wall, but at the sound of the 
priest’s voice she turned quickly. She looked white and 
thin ; and a dull, heavy expression was in her eyes. As 
she held out her hand with a faint smile, he started for- 
ward, clasping it eagerly in his. 

'‘Cordelia!” he exclaimed hurriedly. He strove to 
say something more, but the words refused to come. 
Presently he succeeded in regaining his voice. “ You are 
better,” he said, with forced calmness. 


OUR LADY OF GUADALOUPE. 69 

‘‘Yes, much better, father. But my head is still weak, 
and I feel exhausted.” 

Sister Josefa left the room softly, whispering to the 
priest that Dr. Baldwin had said his patient must not 
talk too long. 

When she had gone, Padre Lament seated himself by 
the bedside. “You have much to tell me, Cordelia,” he 
said, in a tone of reflection. “ Is it not so } ” 

“ It is rather you who have much to tell me, I think, 
father,” she replied, in some astonishment. “What has 
happened, and why am I in this place Sister Josefa and 
the Superior say I have been ill ; and, indeed, this must 
be true, for I feel so weak and languid. But why am I not 
at home with my aunt, and where is she ? ” Her voice 
trembled a little as she put the question, and she looked 
searchingly into the priest’s face. 

He felt that he had a difficult task before him, and 
one requiring great tact and delicacy ; but he resolved to 
acquit himself of it as speedily and easily as possible. 

“ I must go back a little, my child, in order that you 
may understand it all,” he said. “ Do you remember,” he 
added, after a second’s reflection, “a visit I paid you one 
evening not very long ago ? You told me then of a for- 
tune you had just inherited, and of your desire to devote it 
and yourself to God’s service.” He hesitated again, as 
the recollection of that evening occurred to him, and he re- 
called the feelings associated with it. “ That same night,” 
he continued gently, “you were taken ill, and have re- 
mained so ever since. Of course, the project of going 
to France was thus indefinitely postponed ; or, rather, it 
would have been, had not a conversation held by you with 
Mrs. Aldergrove caused other arrangements to be made. 
You told her, you remember, that, in case any thing should 
happen to prevent your going, you would like your cousins 
to take your aunt abroad. Mrs. Aldergrove ” — 


70 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


Pardon me, father,” interrupted Cordelia, “but you 
are mistaken there. I never mentioned the matter to Mrs. 
Aldergrove, nor held any conversation whatever with her.” 

Padre Lament’s face expressed deep astonishment. 

“ Are you sure of that } ” he asked. “ You may possibly 
forget.” 

“No, I forget nothing, father. I spoke of the money to 
no one except you and my aunt.” 

There was a pause. Each seemed desirous of saying 
something which neither had the courage to utter. 

“ Miss Hericourt is weak,” said the priest presently, 
“and easily led by others. But let me go on with the story 
as it should be told. Mrs. Aldergrove insisted that such 
an arrangement had been made by you ; and, as you could 
not be appealed to, there was no way of verifying her state- 
ment. We were obliged, therefore, to take her word for it. 
What her motive could have been in thus misrepresenting 
the truth, I cannot imagine, unless ” — He checked him- 
self abruptly, and for a few moments did not speak. “ Miss 
Hericourt,” he added finally, “ objected to the plan of 
going abroad without you ; and Dr. Baldwin and myself 
sought to persuade her to remain firm in this opinion. But 
of what use could our influence be to her while your 
cousins were in the house } In spite of my protestations, 
she decided at last to accompany them, and endeavor to 
procure the money unaided. She left Santa Fe a week 
ago with the Aldergroves, who, however, will leave her at 
Havre, and make a tour of the Continent. You were 
brought here before their departure.” 

He paused, and for some time there was silence between 
them. Then Cordelia extended her hand, and laid it gently 
on his arm. 

“ I have no friend, it seems, but you,” she said, speaking 
with difficulty. “ Those who should have been my friends 
have forsaken me when I had most need of them.” Her 


OUR LADY OF GUADALOUPE. 


71 


eyes filled with tears, but she brushed them impatiently 
away. “Pray with me,” she said, “pray with me, father. 
There are thoughts in my mind which must not stay 
there.” 

Notwithstanding this, there was in her tone a resig- 
nation which brought forcibly before the priest the no- 
bility and strength of her character. He had expected 
to find her amazed and indignant at her aunt’s cruel deser- 
tion and her cousins’ falsehood, but the calmness and for- 
titude with which she received the intelligence excited 
both his respect and his admiration. He looked earnestly 
at her ; an uncontrollable emotion sweeping through his 
whole frame as a moment later he fell upon his knees by 
the bedside, and a fervent prayer escaped his lips. By 
degrees, the full sense of the situation was lost to him ; 
and he became conscious that his supplication was again 
a fierce appeal to be delivered from temptation. Once, 
his gaze meeting Cordelia’s, he saw her eyes fixed upon 
him with a sort of bewildered fascination, in which a touch 
of alarm lingered. He stopped abruptly, feeling, in so do- 
ing, the blood rush to his face. Cordelia’s hand, whitened 
and transparent in consequence of her illness, lay on the 
coverlet of the bed. For a second he hesitated, and turned 
irresolutely away. Then, with a sudden impetuous gesture, 
he clasped it in his, and kissed it passionately. 

Cordelia started ; and her face, so pale a moment before, 
now flushed scarlet. “Ah,” she cried, withdrawing her 
hand, “ not you, too, — not you ! ” Tears choked her ut- 
terance ; and, before she could speak again, he had risen, 
and dashed from the room. 

She lay back upon her pillow, weak and trembling; the 
tears rolling unheeded down her cheeks, and falling upon 
the hand which the priest had pressed to his lips, as if to 
remove the stain which rested there. A sense of painful 
loneliness overcame her now for the first time. Her last 


72 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


support had been taken from her, for henceforth friendship 
between herself and Padre Lament would be impossible. 
He had been all to her, — priest, guide, brother; and now 
he could be neither the one nor the other. She remained 
alone, with a heart more heavy and sorrowful than it had 
ever been before, her sense of oppression intensified, per- 
haps, by her weak physical condition ; but the latent hero- 
ism in her nature came forth at her call, and the degrada- 
tion of self-pity was successfully overcome. 

As for Padre Lament, he went home filled with horror 
and indignation against himself. What had he done In 
a moment of ungovernable emotion he had raised an im- 
passable barrier between himself and the woman he loved, 
for he no longer denied that he loved her. He sat mo- 
tionless in his study for several hours, overwhelming him- 
self with bitter reproaches, rendered more severe by the 
consciousness of how powerless he was to overcome the 
feelings which swayed him. Either he must renounce for- 
ever this unlucky passion, or else begin life afresh, and 
under other auspices. At this last thought a blush of 
shame rose to his cheeks. He despised himself thor- 
oughly ; for his moral strength, his one hope of salvation, 
had failed him at the moment when he most needed it. 
He could have found some relief once more in earnest 
prayer, and yet he dared not pray. The mere mention of 
God’s name now seemed to him a profanation. 

By and by, however, he grew calmer, and took counsel 
with himself upon the course of action easiest to pursue. 
Which would be the greater trial, — to renounce the priest- 
hood, or to continue as he was ? It was not the first time 
that the possibility of either had occurred to him. Often 
he had wondered whether or not his calling had been ju- 
diciously chosen, and whether a nature such as his could 
find permanent satisfaction in the life he led. 

Of all the struggles he had been called upon to bear. 


OUR LADY OF GUADALOUPE. 


73 


this was surely the most terrible. There are moments 
when the noblest minds not only turn away in perplexity 
from communion with self, but find no human intercourse 
of any profit. This was the case with Padre Lament. 
What should he do } Whither should he go in order to 
discover what path it would be most fitting for him to 
take ? What availed him now all former experiences ^ 
When he rose to retire for the night, he was exhausted, 
both mentally and physically ; but his reflections had not 
been without issue. He resolved to go to the Bishop, put 
the facts of the case before him, and announce his deter- 
mination to cast off the vows which, but a short time 
before, had been his sole consolation. 


CHAPTER X. 


MRS. ALDERGROVE’S SUGGESTION. 

“ There are, therefore, situations from which nothing but solitude and retire- 
ment can relieve us. For this reason it is frequently necessary that those whom 
melancholy affects should be left alone.” — Zimmermann : Essay on Solitude. 

The stage in which our friends were travelling across 
the plains contained ten persons, arranged from the front, 
backward, as follows : — 

On the first seat were the driver, — Bill Taylor, — and 
his assistant, John Hill. Professor Hoveden and Mr. 
Glatz occupied the second seat. On the third were Dr. 
Heyward, a young Boston physician, holding some govern- 
ment position in Santa Fe, and now on his way home ; and 
Mr. Robert Fielding, a merchant of New York. On the 
fourth seat sat Mrs. Aldergrove and Castaly Fielding, the 
little girl who was so apprehensive of danger just before 
the stage started. On the fifth and last seat were Miss 
Hericourt and Margaret. 

The stage itself was built somewhat after the pattern 
of the ambulance wagons then used in the army. The 
seats were covered with dark green leather, and supplied 
with well-cushioned backs, so arranged that they could be 
folded forward, allowing the passengers to get to their 
places readily. The rear seat, however, was constructed 
somewhat differently from the rest. The back, instead of 
being a cushioned rail like the others, was nearly two feet 


MRS. ALDERGROVE'S SUGGESTION. 


75 


in height, and was attached to the seat by means of hinges. 
It was further kept in position by stout leather straps, 
buckled to the front of the cushion upon which the occu- 
pants sat. When these straps were unfastened, the back 
fell down like a swinging-door. Properly adjusted, how- 
ever, it formed a portion of the rear of the stage ; and 
above it was a curtain attached to the top of the vehicle, 
and below to the swinging-back, by light straps and 
buckles. 

It is necessary to be particular upon these points, even 
at the risk of exhausting the reader’s patience; for the de- 
tails just recorded are of material consequence to the full 
comprehension of the extraordinary events which subse- 
quently happened. 

The luggage-wagon followed the stage at the average 
distance of fifty yards. It contained the passengers’ trunks, 
provisions, cooking utensils, and three small tents, one of 
the latter being for the use of the ladies, another for 
the Professor, Glatz, and Dr. Heyward, the third for Mr. 
Fielding and his little daughter. The wagon was driven 
by a certain Thomas Wall ; and his assistant was no other 
than the Mexican, Jesus Maria, whom we have already 
seen on a former occasion heading the procession of de- 
vout supplicants for rain. 

The four men, drivers and assistants, were thoroughly 
accustomed to frontier life under all its aspects ; and in 
other respects they were quite equal to the various duties 
required by their positions. Not only were they obliged 
to look after the horses, do the cooking, pitch the tents, 
and perform any other trifling services that might be 
necessary, but they were likewise forced to keep a good 
lookout against Indians, and surprises from the foe. 
Hence they took turns at standing guard at night. This 
latter duty was always discharged with true military strict- 
ness, which was very proper ; as it was by no means an 


76 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


unusual event for larger parties than the present one to be 
cut off by some wandering band of Apaches or Navajos. 

Professor Hoveden, under whose charge the ladies were, 
had been in Santa Fe for some time, examining a gold- 
mine in the neighborhood. An intimate acquaintance had 
sprung up between him and Major Hericourt j and, hear- 
ing through Mrs. Aldergrove that Miss Hericourt and her 
niece were on their way to the United States, he had an- 
nounced to them his own intention to go at the same time, 
although he knew them but slightly. 

It must be admitted, that the presence of ladies was 
something of a restraint upon the other passengers. Or- 
dinarily a party of this kind spent the day in singing 
humorous songs, relating piquant anecdotes, smoking an 
unlimited number of pipes, and imbibing liberal potations 
of whiskey and brandy. 

On the present occasion, however, the stage had trav- 
elled many miles before any one undertook to converse 
with his neighbor, either aloud or in a whisper ; and no 
one, as yet, had ventured to commit the indiscretion of 
lighting a pipe. In fact, for over an hour not an obser- 
vation had been made by any one of the passengers ; and 
an expression of settled gloom began to make itself evi- 
dent upon the faces of the masculine portion, with the 
exception of that of the Professor, who, with a treatise 
upon geology held closely to his eyes, seemed lost to his 
surroundings. 

It is true, that little Castaly’s gentle tones has been 
heard now and then in the beginning of the journey ; but 
her remarks were mostly questions about objects near by, 
and were replied to by such short, abrupt answers from 
Mr. Fielding, that the child soon relapsed into silence. 
Occasionally an animal with very long ears, elegantly 
termed a jackass rabbit, would dart out in alarm from 
beneath some bush, and spring across the road directly in 


M/^S. ALDERGROVE'S SUGGESTIOAT. 


77 


front of the horses’ feet ; and, again, a prairie-wolf, or 
^ coyote, might be seen skulking away from the vicinity, 
i But, beyond the appearance of these creatures, there was 
' little to attract the attention. As for the ladies, they were 
as silent as the men. They sat with their veils down, tak- 
i ing no interest apparently in their fellow-travellers, or in 
I the surrounding country. 

' A halt of about half an hour was made at noon, that the 
! horses might be fed, and the passengers allowed to eat a 
light dinner. The men descended from the vehicle with 
the utmost haste. They stretched their legs with satis- 
faction, then lighted their pipes, and endeavored to refresh 
themselves with a slice of ham and some “ hard-tack,” as 
the army biscuit is appropriately called, washed down with 
such spirituous liquor as each had seen fit to provide for 
his comfort. 

It was at the conclusion of this homely meal, that the 
Professor, not without some trepidation, approached the 
I rear of the stage for the purpose of renewing his offers of 
assistance. Addressing Mrs. Aldergrove, whom he evi- 
dently mistook for Miss Hericourt, he expressed in a few 
words his desire to be of service to them. 

“You are very kind,” she replied in a low tone, “but 
; we shall require little. We are provided with all possible 
comforts, and we are used to travelling.” 

“ But you must be sure to let me know if I can do any 
' thing for you,” said the Professor, glancing at her from 
I over his spectacles. “We have a long journey before us, 
and I fear you will be tired before we get to the end of it. 
Your niece, certainly, will suffer; for I think you told me 
she had been ill.” 

“ Doubtless, we shall all suffer,” said Mrs. Aldergrove 
in a resigned tone. “I am afraid we shall not be very 
companionable : our great sorrow is so recent, that you 
will, I am sure, pardon in advance any apparent incivility 


73 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


on our part. In the mean time, let me thank you again for 
your kindness.” 

The Professor bowed, and was turning away, when she 
spoke again. 

“I am sure,” she said gravely, “that we are a great 
hinderance to your enjoyment. And, indeed,” she con- 
tinued, after a moment’s deliberation, “ the odor of tobacco 
is exceedingly unpleasant to us. Could you not arrange 
to have a curtain of some kind put up, so as to separate 
us from the other passengers } If that could be done, you 
would feel at liberty to talk and smoke, while we should 
have greater privacy.” 

The Professor’s pale face brightened perceptibly. 

“A very excellent suggestion,” he said, smiling. “I 
will speak to Taylor about it immediately. He has, no 
doubt, some tarpaulin or rug that will answer the purpose. 
I only see one objection ; and that is, that Mr. Fielding will 
be separated from his little girl. However, I will gladly 
take Hill’s place beside the driver. Hill can easily go in 
the other wagon, and the doctor can move into my place. 
In this way, Mr. Fielding can have the little one beside 
him, and the last two seats will be entirely for your party.” 

“ Oh ! if you could make that arrangement, professor, 
we should be greatly indebted to you,” exclaimed Mrs. 
Aldergrove. “ It will suit us admirably, and will not, I 
trust, inconvenience any one.” 

It was not very long before Bill Taylor was at work, 
everybody in the stage having given a ready consent to 
have the curtain put up. Mr. Fielding was especially 
gratified at the idea of having Castaly beside him. 

In a few moments, therefore, the matter was settled. A 
large buffalo robe was hung up, forming a separate com- 
partment for the ladies, and making them as completely 
isolated as they would have been in another vehicle. Pipes 
could now be smoked ad libiUiniy drinks taken unobserved 


M/^S. ALDEKGROVE^S SUGGESTION. 


79 


. by feminine eyes, and even some not very delicate songs 
^ sung without the ears of any one being offended. 

“ I am glad to be with you, papa,” said little Castaly. 
don’t like those queer ladies.” 

“By Jove!” cried Glatz, perceiving with satisfaction 
how admirably the new arrangement worked. “That Miss 
Hericourt has more sense than all of us put together. 
Nearly as much, in fact, as my wife.” 

As for the ladies, no sooner was the stage under way 
again, than they raised their veils. 

“ Did you observe that the Professor mistook you for 
me 1 ” asked Miss Hericourt, “ and also that he seemed 
! to think Margaret was Cordelia.? How droll 1 was it not ? 
I Still,” she added, “ I am perfectly willing that he should 
continue to do so. Margaret is Cordelia, you are me, and 
I am you. We will mystify them to the end if you do not 
mind. I dote on mysteries, especially under such circum- 
: stances as the present. They provide pleasing excitement 
I to the mind oppressed by sorrow.” And Miss Hericourt 
i rolled her eyes towards the roof of the stage, and relapsed 
1 into an expressive silence. ' 

' Mrs. Aldergrove assented calmly, but Margaret said 
i nothing. From the beginning of the journey she had 
I sat silent, lost, to all appearance, in deep reflection, and 
unconscious of what was passing around her. 


CHAPTER XI. 

PROFESSOR HOVEDEN IS TROUBLED. 

“ Two voices are there.” 

So rapidly did Bill Taylor drive his horses, that shortly 
after sunset he brought the stage to a small mountain 
brook within a mile of Tecalote. A halt was to be made 
here for the night, it being thought preferable to going on 
to the miserable little Mexican village^ The tents were 
accordingly pitched, and preparations made for the evening 
meal. The men had at once left the stage, but Mrs. Alder- 
grove announced that she and the other ladies would re- 
main where they were until the tent should be quite ready. 
When the arrangements were finally completed. Professor 
Hoveden went forward to escort them to the shelter they 
were to occupy. Before he had gone half the short dis- 
tance, however, the back of the stage was let down, the 
curtain raised ; and the three ladies, still closely veiled, 
descended to the ground. As the Professor approached, 
Mrs. Aldergrove advanced slightly to meet him, being 
urged thereto by a sign from Margaret. 

“ I hope you will not put yourself to the inconvenience 
of looking after us,” she said. “ It is not necessary. We 
are quite able to take care of ourselves in all such trivial 
matters as are likely to occur during the journey. If any 
danger should arise, we shall be grateful for your kind 
assistance and protection ; but otherwise we prefer to be 

8o 


PROFESSOR HOVE DEN IS TROUBLED. 8 1 

entirely independent. Of course, our position is not a 
pleasant one at best ; but it will be less embarrassing if we 
are left free to move about without notice from the other 
passengers.” 

“ Certainly, Miss Hericourt,” replied the Professor, still 
mistaking her for that lady. “You will, of course, do as 
you please in regard to the matter. I should not have pre- 
sumed to offer my services had I not supposed they would 
be acceptable to you.” He spoke with both surprise and 
mortification in his tone. 

“ Oh ! pray do not think I am unmindful of your kind- 
ness,” said Mrs. Aldergrove hastily. “But, indeed, pro- 
fessor, I hardly know what I am doing. My brother’s 
death was so sudden — so awful — so” — She was at a 
loss for an adjective forcible enough to express the great 
calamity which had befallen her: so she said calmly, “ I am 
not myself, Professor Hoveden, not myself at all ; and as 
for my niece Cordelia,” — lowering her voice to a whisper, 
while Margaret and Miss Hericourt walked arm in arm 
toward the tent, — “she has hardly spoken a word since her 
unfortunate father was buried, nor has she recovered from 
her recent severe illness. My cousin, Mrs. Aldergrove, 
as you have doubtless seen, is greatly shaken in mind, 
partly from the fact, no doubt, that her daughter has pre- 
ferred to remain behind in Santa Fe, rather than accom- 
pany us. But, besides this, my brother’s death was such 
a blow to us, that I am amazed to find we are not all 
deranged.” 

“Naturally, your grief must be overwhelming; and I 
am not surprised that you seek retirement,” said the Pro- 
fessor with grave politeness. “ Let me assure you that 
your wishes shall be religiously respected by all of us.” 

“Thank you. I knew you would understand. Will you 
kindly tell the other gentlemen the cause of our unsocia- 
bility, and ask them to bear with us in our great affliction } 


82 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


My poor brother was every thing to me and to his desolate 
daughter. I never expect to see a smile on Cordelia’s lips 
again.” 

“ Oh ! I hope it will not be so bad as that,” said the Pro- 
fessor. “And now, good-night. Miss Hericourt. Should 
you want me, you know where I am to be found.” 

Mrs. Aldergrove bade him good-night, and turned in the 
direction of the tent, which Miss Hericourt and Margaret 
had already entered. 

Professor Hoveden joined the other passengers. 

“It is very remarkable,” he said, as he lighted a cigar, 
and strolled away over the prairie with Mr. Glatz. “ It is 
without exception the most extraordinary thing I ever saw, 
and my life has not been an uneventful one. When I en- 
gaged places in the stage for these women, at the request 
of one of them, — this very Miss Hericourt, I think, — she 
appeared gratified at the idea of having some one to look 
after her during the journey ; and now she seems almost 
insulted by my offer to help her in her loneliness. I can- 
not understand it.” 

“Then, you don’t know women. Professor,” said Glatz, 
with emphasis. “ Why, there’s my wife, now. She changes 
her mind twenty times a day ; but it’s all right, I suppose. 
She’s a woman, and she can’t help it. Miss Hericourt is 
a woman too.” 

“ Yes, very likely,” said the Professor reflectively. “ But 
somehow she does not appear as she did when I saw her 
just after the major’s death. She was very weak then, and 
seemed to need protection ; but now it is quite otherwise. 
I have heard it said, that some women grow strong when 
responsibility is forced upon them ; and it is therefore pos- 
sible, that having her niece and that half-crazed cousin in 
charge, makes her overdo things a little, especially as she 
is surrounded by none but men.” 

“In regard to that,” said Glatz, knocking the ashes from 


PROFESSOR HOVEDEN IS TROUBLED. 


83 


his pipe, “ my wife is a notable example of the truth of your 
theory. You should have seen her, Professor, when the 
house caught fire. We all got out safe, but I found that I 
had left my coat hanging over the back of a chair. It was 
a cold night ; and I stood shivering on the sidewalk, watch- 
ing the flames as they consumed my house. Suddenly I 
started back to get that coat. ‘Where are you going, 
Glatz ? ’ asked my wife. ‘ My dear/ I replied, ‘ I left my 
coat hanging over a chair.’ Well, I never got any farther 
than that, for she seized me by the arm. ‘ Glatz,’ she 
cried, ‘you are a Dutch fool! ’ and with that she gave me 
a jerk that sent me half-way across the street. Before I 
knew where I was, the roof fell in. Now, wasn’t it lucky 
that I didn’t go for the coat ? I objected to being called 
Dutch, though,” continued Glatz with a sigh. “I came 
here when I was fourteen, and that’s just thirty years ago. 
And I am not Dutch, either.” 

The two men walked along in silence for a while, the 
one puffing vigorously away at his cigar, the other at his 
pipe. Presently the Professor stopped abruptly, and faced 
his companion. 

“ Glatz,” he said earnestly, “did you ever see Miss Heri- 
court or her niece ? ” 

“ Oh, yes I a hundred times.” 

“ Did you ever hear either of them speak ? ” 

“ I’ve heard the major’s sister speak frequently. She 
has often been in our store.” 

“ Did you hear her talking to me a little while ago } ” 
inquired the Professor, dropping his voice. 

“ No, I didn’t catch a word. You were too far off.” 

“Well, I have heard Miss Hericourt talk often, and ” — 
he hesitated, and looked Glatz full in the face inquir- 
ingly. 

“What of it.^” exclaimed the other. “What are you 
driving at. Professor } ” 


84 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


“ Nothing, only it struck me that a sudden change has 
taken place in her voice.” 

“ Why, my dear sir, that’s of no consequence,” cried 
Glatz, with a laugh. My wife’s voice changes a dozen 
times a day. Women,” he continued, assuming a digni- 
fied air, '^have certain tones for certain things. When 
they have no responsibility, for instance, their voices are 
soft and gentle, like the turtle-dove’s ; but when responsi- 
bility is thrust upon them, — well, you ought to hear my 
wife then, that’s all.” 

“The difference is possible,” said the Professor calmly. 
“But why do not those other women raise their veils 1 The 
niece and cousin, I mean.” 

“Now, Professor, how the devil do I know.? Don’t all 
women in mourning keep their veils down, except when 
they have a special reason for raising them .? When my 
wife’s sister died she did not lift her veil for eighteen 
months.” 

“ If she was dead, how could she .? ” said the Professor, 
with unconscious solemnity. 

“ I mean my wife, of course,” answered the other ; “ and 
I will tell you why women cultivate this habit. In the 
first place, it’s the fashion to wear veils down; and it allows 
you to think, moreover, that the women beneath them are 
looking mournful, or, perhaps, weeping. This, of course, 
excites sympathy ; and sympathy is what women live on. 
Did you ever see the woman. Professor, who did not crave 
sympathy .? My dear sir, she does not exist.” 

The Professor made no reply. He walked on, with his 
grave face unusually thoughtful in expression. They 
turned in a few moments to go back to the camp. It was 
already quite dark, but the large fire which had been kin- 
dled served as a beacon to guide them. Its ruddy flame 
could be seen in the distance, illuminating the obscurity. 
The stillness was oppressive; and the chill air which al- 


PROFESSOR J70VEEEJV IS TROUBLED, 85 

ways comes in that region with the setting sun, even in 
midsummer, caused the two men to quicken their steps. 
They were hungry besides, and they could see by the fire- 
light that supper was being prepared. 

When they passed by the ladies’ tent, it was tightly 
closed. A light, however, was burning within ; and the 
shadows of the three women could be seen upon the can- 
vas, as they sat at the camp-table, eating their evening 
meal. Professor Hoveden listened as he walked quietly by, 
but not a sound was to be heard. He stood for an instant 
watching abstractedly the exaggerated reflections cast upon 
the tent-wall ; and, as he did so, a sudden movement 
struck him as being unlike the others. One of the women 
raised her hands, and then clasped them over her face 
with a sound like a sob. Half ashamed of himself, he 
hastened after Glatz, who had already filled his plate with 
fried beef, of which he was partaking voraciously. 

An hour later all were asleep, except the two men on 
guard and Margaret Aldergrove. 


CHAPTER XII. 

MARGARET DOES HER DUTY. 

“ Deeds, not words.” 

At a little before sunrise the next morning our travel- 
lers were eating their breakfast ; and, when that not very 
inviting meal was disposed of, they were again on their 
journey. Bill Taylor expected to pass Las Vegas early in 
the afternoon, and to camp about twenty miles beyond. 
To do this, it was necessary to be expeditious, and to push 
the horses to their utmost. After passing Las Vegas, no 
more settlements were to be made until Fort Atkinson 
should be reached. It was Taylor’s intention to remain in 
camp until nine o’clock that evening, and then, starting 
once more, make an all-night journey to Utah Creek. 
This course was imperative in order to avoid meeting with 
the bands of Indians which abounded in this wild region. 
Only a month before, the stage had been attacked while 
passing through this very tract of country. The men be- 
longing to the unfortunate party were killed, and the 
women carried into captivity. 

On this occasion all went well. The camp was reached 
in due time, the horses and passengers refreshed ; and 
punctually at nine o’clock, with the full moon shining over- 
head, the stage and its attendant wagon were once more 
on their way. 

It was the custom for first one and then the other vehi- 
86 


MARGARET DOES HER DUTY. 


87 


cle to take the lead on alternate days. At present the 
wagon was in front, and the stage scarcely fifty yards 
behind. 

The usual laughing and talking went on for some time 
among the gentlemen in the front division of the stage. 
But little by little, as one after the other composed him- 
self to sleep with as much comfort as was possible under 
the circumstances, the conversation languished, and finally 
ceased altogether. Even Bill Taylor’s vigorous ejacula- 
tions to the horses were gradually discontinued. The ani- 
mals seemed to know that good work was expected from 
them ; for they kept steadily on in a swinging trot, which 
did not relax for a moment, and carried the stage over the 
smooth prairie-road at the rate of seven miles an hour. 

In the rear compartment scarcely a word was spoken. 
Miss Hericourt had already settled herself to sleep; and 
to judge by her heavy breathing, which, however, was im- 
perfectly heard through the shawls enveloping her head 
and face, she had fully succeeded in accomplishing her 
object. 

Margaret, it will be remembered, sat on the back seat 
with her cousin ; while Mrs. Aldergrove occupied the front 
one by herself. 

Sleep was very far from the eyes of these two ladies. 
Now and then a low whisper passed from one to the other. 
Margaret had only to lean forward a little, to bring her lips 
in close contact with her mother’s ear. 

‘'There will never be another such opportunity,” she 
said presently. Shall we let it slip by unheeded } ” 

“I am afraid, — terribly afraid,” said Mrs. Aldergrove. 
“It is an awful thing; and, if she should cry out, we 
should be discovered.” She turned her head toward the 
buffalo-robe, as though to make sure that no one was lis- 
tening. “ I tremble, Margaret,” she added: “my strength 
fails me.” 


88 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


“There will never be another such opportunity/’ re- 
peated Margaret slowly, and with emphasis. “Think, 
mother, of the wretched lives we lead, and the prospect 
before us. Think, also, of the change in our positions 
which money can give us. Look at this woman,” she con- 
tinued, with a gesture in the direction of Miss Hericourt : 
“she has but a few years yet to live. She is of no use in 
the world, nor has she the capability of making herself 
useful. Besides, if she gets the money, will it not go to 
found a Romish convent, — a house devoted to the service 
of antichrist } ” 

“Yes, yes,” assented Mrs. Aldergrove. “I do not say, 
Margaret, that any act performed to divert the money 
from so unholy a cause would not be a righteous one. 
Still, I am afraid, — more afraid than ever in my life 
before.” 

“There is always a tendency in our minds to see good 
in actions by which we are benefited,” said Margaret, after 
a pause. “ But I have looked at the matter calmly, and, I 
think, disinterestedly. I know that the act we contemplate 
would be in every way a righteous one. But I went over 
all this with you last night, mother ; and even before leav- 
ing Santa Fewe spoke of it, as you know. This is no time 
for argument. Go to sleep if you will, or at least shut 
your eyes, and leave the matter to me.” 

“Go to sleep!” said Mrs. Aldergrove. “No, I cannot 
do that. I shall^ share your danger, whatever it may be. 
But, O Margaret I are you quite sure you are right ? 
What if you should fail } ” 

“I shall not fail,” said Margaret firmly. “You have 
heard, mother, of inspirations from Heaven granted to cer- 
tain persons for special causes. Such an inspiration has 
been sent to me. I shall obey the impulse, and soon, at 
that. You cannot help me. All that I ask is, that you will 
keep perfectly quiet, no matter what you may see or hear.” 


MARGARET DOES HER DUTY. 


89 


‘‘God help you, Margaret, God help you!” said Mrs. 
Aldergrove reverently. “ I believe you are right. The 
money must not aid in spreading Romish errors over the 
country. Yes,” she added, after a moment’s reflection, “it 
is clearly our duty to obtain it. It is God’s will.” 

“ Listen,” said Margaret, bending forward, and speaking 
hurriedly. “You must remain perfectly still, as though you 
were sound asleep. Do not look at me, and then you will 
never know how it was done. The responsibility will be 
mine, — all mine ; and the glory or the shame, whichever 
it may be, will rest on me.’’ 

Mrs. Aldergrove obeyed. She turned her face in the 
opposite direction, and closed her eyes. All was silent, 
save for the noise made by the horses’ hoofs and the 
heavy rumbling of the vehicle. Margaret sat for a moment 
as if plunged in thought : then she rose gently, and gazed 
earnestly upon the sleeping form of Miss Hericourt, whose 
breathing was deep and regular. The girl’s hands did not 
tremble ; nor was any emotion displayed by her except, 
perhaps, in the tightly compressed lips, always with her 
the indication of intense feeling. Miss Hericourt’s fea- 
tures, never very strong in cast, looked now particularly 
childish, as she half reclined, half sat, in the corner, and 
in her sleep partly uncovered her face, unconscious of 
that cold gaze riveted upon her. A breath of air blowing 
across the prairie, and made stronger by the quick motion 
of the stage, shook the curtain back and forth, and warned 
Margaret that delay was dangerous. Yet she stood still, 
looking at her cousin, her eyes now filled with the terror 
of uncertainty. Oh for strength to do the deed quickly I 
How many moments had already passed ! and Miss Heri- 
court, her lips parted in a vague smile, the muscles of her 
face relaxed, slept steadily on, never stirring. 

Mrs. Aldergrove, cowering on the cushion, her hands 
tightly pressed to her ears, shivered as if with cold. Would 


90 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


the end never come? What end? For what did she 
wait ? Surely it was no reality, this stern, horrible vision 
which rose up before her. Miss Hericourt peacefully 
sleeping, and Margaret — no, no, it was not possible. If 
she could only remove her hands from her ears to hear, 
and turn round to see, what was taking place behind her, 
then this dream, born of the night and her own unhealthy 
fancy, would vanish, as the gray morning mist facies be- 
neath the sun’s crimson rays. But she was powerless. 
Her faculties, her limbs, were paralyzed. Had she become 
merely a thing — an inanimate creature devoid of will and 
motion ? She could hear nothing, feel nothing, do nothing. 
And yet, what noise was that which suddenly echoed 
through the compartment, ringing into the breathless still- 
ness and across the plain ? Could it be a human cry ? 
How pitiful, how mournful, it sounded, as it died away in 
a faint murmur far off ! Whether or not it were a human 
voice, whether real or imaginary, it seemed to recall Mrs. 
Aldergrove once more to herself. Her arms fell to her 
side ; and, with a terror-stricken expression, she turned 
slowly round. 

“ Margaret,” she said in a hoarse whisper, “ Margaret ! ” 
Her clouded brain could at first distinguish nothing; but 
in a few moments she made out Margaret’s form crouch- 
ing behind her in an attitude of nameless dread, her face 
buried in both hands. 

“ Margaret, speak to me,” whispered Mrs. Aldergrove 
in an agonized tone. - 

There was no answer for some time ; but finally the girl 
raised her head, exposing a white and distorted counte- 
nance to her mother’s view. “ It is all over,” she said in 
a mechanical tone. “ But it had to be done : it had to be 
done.” 

'' Did she cry out, Margaret ? I stopped my ears with 
both hands. I was horribly afraid.” 


MARGARET DOES HER DUTY. 


91 


do not know — I cannot remember. But it is of 
little consequence. I hardly think she could have uttered 
a sound, though ; for her face was muffled in shawls.” 

They sat for a while in silence. The horses still kept 
up a steady trot, their hoofs striking the hard road with a 
metallic sound. 

“It was God’s will — God’s will,” said Mrs. Aldergrove 
presently. “ He will provide every means.” She seemed 
to be hardly conscious of what she was saying, and her 
glance wandered restlessly here and there. 

“It was my duty,” said Margaret. “Have not others 
been inspired to commit deeds, which, though apparently 
wicked and uncalled for, have brought happiness to a 
chosen few ? Cannot I, too, have been inspired ? ” She 
rose as she spoke, and rolled up the little curtain at the 
side of the stage. The moonlight streamed in over Miss 
Hericourt’s empty seat, and seemed to cast thereon a 
ghostly shadow. It revealed, as well, the pallor of Mar- 
garet’s features and the horror on Mrs. Aldergrove’s, as 
she sat motionless, with her hands convulsively pressed 
together. 

“ Give me my shawl, mother, and I will try to sleep,” 
said Margaret, as she fastened the curtain. “You, too, 
had better rest ; for to-morrow will be a day requiring all 
our strength.” She threw herself down in a corner of the 
seat, and, drawing the shawl over her knees, closed her 
eyes. Mrs. Aldergrove did likewise, and once more silence 
reigned in the compartment. 

Did they sleep, or only feign to do so ? 

The moonlight gradually waned, casting its last pale 
rays on the two women, and making their white features 
look as -if the impress of death was upon them. In the 
empty seat an indefinite presence seemed to linger, and 
stretch forth appealing arms to the motionless forms 
sitting with closed eyes, and faces upturned to the dim 
light. 


92 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


So the night passed, stealing quietly by, as though the 
deed it had witnessed had stiffened its footsteps. Would 
they sleep on until broad day, if indeed Margaret and her 
mother did sleep } 

See, the morning is near at hand. Already a faint rosy 
flush makes itself visible on the eastern horizon ; and, where 
the moonlight recently entered, a fresh, cool air is blowing 
into the compartment. Margaret stirs uneasily, and draws 
her shawl closer about her. Day is beginning to dawn, 
and illumine the desolate prairie with something like 
beauty. Here, indeed, but little nature exists to spring 
into sudden life and warmth at the sun’s touch ; yet the 
joy of the new day fills the atmosphere, and remains there. 

In a little while Margaret unclosed her eyes, and, bend- 
ing forward, touched her mother gently on the shoulder. 

“The time has come,” she said : “do your part.” 


CHAPTER XIIT. 


WHERE IS MRS. ALDERGROVE ? 

“ Foul deeds will rise, 

Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.” 

Hamlet. 

At about five o’clock on the morning following the 
night-journey, the passengers in the front compartment 
of the stage were roused from their somewhat uncomfort- 
able slumbers by a piercing scream from one of the ladies. 
Bill Taylor, who, of course, was awake, changed counte- 
nance ; for the thought of Indians flashed across his mind. 
He knew how greatly the odds would be against him and 
his party if the foe had followed the stage, and were about 
to make an attack. As for the others, they started up, 
rubbing their half-dazed eyes confusedly. Then each invol- 
untarily grasped his revolver, and prepared to defend him- 
self as best he could. A glance behind the stage and 
around the prairie, which was now lighted by the sun’s 
rays, showed Taylor that no Indians were in sight. He 
drew up the horses, however, bringing the vehicle to a 
sudden halt, and jumped to the ground, just as a second 
shriek for help broke the silence. Some of the passengers 
hastily pulled down the partition which divided the stage, 
while others hurried to the ladies’ compartment. To the 
astonishment of all, there were only two ladies to be seen. 
Mrs. Aldergrove, or Miss Hericourt as she was supposed 
to be, was sitting bolt upright, her hands clasped convul- 


94 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


sively, and her whole appearance indicating great agitation. 
Margaret was bending forward, and closely examining a 
strap on the opposite side of the stage ; while the other 
lady had disappeared. 

As Professor Hoveden made his appearance at the side 
of the compartment, Margaret turned toward him. It 
was the first time he had seen her without her veil, nor 
had he ever spoken to her during the journey. His quick 
glance noted that she was striving her utmost to subdue 
the consternation and grief which threatened to overwhelm 
her. 

How could this have happened 1 ” she asked in a hollow 
tone. “How could this have happened.^” 

“ What is it } Where is Mrs. Aldergrove ? ” exclaimed 
several passengers simultaneously. 

“Tell them, Cordelia,” said the real Mrs. Aldergrove, 
covering her eyes with her hands, as though to shut out 
some horrible vision. “ Tell them, for I cannot as yet 
trust myself to speak of it. My poor, poor cousin ! ” 

“ Professor Hoveden,” said Margaret with an effort, but 
speaking calmly and distinctly, “something terrible has 
happened. You see,” she added, pointing to the empty 
seat, “my cousin, Mrs. Aldergrove, has gone. Where can 
she be ? How did she get out ” She paused, and, lean- 
ing forward a little, fixed her eyes upon the Professor’s 
face. 

No one replied. All seemed, for the moment, too hor- 
rified to speak. Margaret withdrew her glance from the 
Professor, and allowed it to wander from one to the other 
of the passengers, as though seeking an explanation. 

“ I awoke not long ago,” she continued with the same 
calmness, “and saw at once that my cousin’s seat was 
empty. At first I thought my eyes had deceived me. As 
the curtains were all drawn but one, and the light was 
dim. I passed my hand over the cushion. It was unoccu- 


WHERE IS MRS. ALDERGROVE ? 95 

pied, and quite cold to my touch, as though no one had 
sat upon it for some time.” 

In spite of herself her voice faltered a little, but she 
regained her composure almost instantly. 

“ The discovery almost stunned me, as you can imagine, 
gentlemen,” she went on after a short pause. “ I felt sick 
and faint ; but I had sufficient strength to rouse my aunt, 
and make her aware of what had occurred. You heard 
her scream.” 

She turned aside once more, and examined the strap, as 
though to discover whether or not it was displaced. 

For an instant all seemed to be stricken dumb by the 
appalling recital. Then a sudden babel of voices rose, 
each person expressing his feelings and opinions inde- 
pendently of the others. 

“It is a horrible thing,” said the Professor gravely, when 
he could make himself heard. “ Mrs. Aldergrove is cer- 
tainly not here ; but where can she have gone 1 It is very 
mysterious.” 

“ That’s so,” assented Glatz. “ Where the devil can she 
have gone ? I don’t think even my wife could answer 
that question.” 

“It is- very evident that she has fallen out,” said 
Margaret quietly. 

“ Fallen out ! ” exclaimed the Professor. “ Why, how 
could she } Don’t you see this strap is unbroken, and 
that it must have formed an effective barrier against any 
such accident ” 

“ She could only have done so in one way,” said Mar- 
garet. “This curtain, I remember, was rolled up last 
evening to admit the fresh air. My aunt was chilly, and 
complained a little : but my poor cousin could never 
endure to be confined, even in a large room ; and so we 
wrapped ourselves in our shawls without further remon- 
strance. She soon fell asleep in the corner, with nothing 


96 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


to hold her in but this strap, which is fastened to the back 
of the seat, as you see. Look, Professor,” she continued, 
again examining it. “It is but a few inches above the 
cushion, and could have been only a slight obstacle to her 
falling out.” 

“If your cousin had ever walked in her sleep. Miss 
Hericourt,” said Dr. Heyward, “I would be inclined to 
think that she had jumped out while in a state of som- 
nambulism ; or she may have awakened suddenly, and got 
out, not knowing what she was doing. I have known of 
several such instances. A patient of mine once falling 
asleep before an open window awoke, apparently under the 
influence of fear, and jumped out.” 

“ She may have done that, or have got out while in a 
state of somnambulism,” replied Margaret, with a quick 
glance of relief and satisfaction, which was not unobserved 
by the Professor, who was closely watching her. “Yes,” 
she continued, “ it must have been in some such way. I 
think I have heard my father say that she has several 
times walked in her sleep.” 

“ But,” cried the Professor hurriedly, “ while we stand 
talking here, the poor lady may be lying in the road half- 
dead, or, perhaps, wandering over the plains. We must 
go back, and find her if possible. Here, Taylor, turn the 
horses. We must look for her, even if we have to go back 
to that brook near Tecalote.” 

“Well, of course,” said Taylor, “I’m willin’ to do what’s 
proper ; but I know it ain’t no use. You’ll never see /ter 
again. I don’t want to scare you, ladies ; but only about 
ten miles back I saw tracks of Injuns a-crossin’ the road, 
an'd a-goin’ south. Them was fresh tracks, too, not over 
an hour old; and it’s a dangerous piece of business goin’ 
back over this road now. We might all have our hair 
lifted within a couple of hours from now, and no one able 
to stop the operation either.” 


WHEI^E IS MRS. ALDERGROVE ? 


97 


** Indians or no Indians,” exclaimed the Professor, we 
must go back ! Could we show ourselves at home, knowing 
that no effort had been made to find the poor woman ? 
Surely not, gentlemen.” 

There was a general murmur of approbation: so Bill 
Taylor, somewhat reluctantly, turned his horses’ heads ; 
and the stage was soon rolling back over the road they 
had just travelled. 

‘‘ It’s awfully dangerous, I tell you, this ’ere goin’ back,” 
said Taylor again, breaking the gloomy silence which had 
fallen over the party. “ I really don’t think it’s safe to 
go farther than the place where I saw them trails. The 
devils may be a-lurkin’ anywhere about here a-watchin’ us. 
I’ve seen ’em spring up out of holes in the ground they’d 
dug, and kill a whole party with one discharge of their 
rifles, darn their red hides ! ” 

No one made any reply to this tragic statement; but 
all kept a sharp lookout, both for the supposed Mrs. Alder- 
grove, and for the Indians, who were certainly at no great 
distance. 

At last Taylor drew up his horses, and, dismounting, 
began carefully to inspect the road. 

“ Here’s the trail I saw an hour ago,” he said. “ There’s 
a big lot of ’em, I can tell you,” he added, as several of 
the passengers got out, and joined him. About fifty, 
I should say; though a guess of that kind is pretty uncer- 
tain. They’ve crossed the road, and are now, very likely, 
ten or twelve miles off to the southward. Well, now, 
gents, what do you say Shall we give it up as a bad 
job, and go on our way again ” 

“I think we ought to go back a little farther, — a mile 
or two, for instance,” said the Professor. “ It is frightful 
to think she may be somewhere in the neighborhood, and 
it seems heartless to leave her to her fate until we are 
quite sure we cannot help her.” 


98 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE, 


“Don’t forget, Professor, that we’ve two more women 
and a little girl with us,” said Taylor. “ If we men were 
the only ones concerned, darn me if I wouldn’t go back 
till we got to the end of the road but what I’d find her. 
But, you see, we ain’t by ourselves ; and the danger is just 
enough to make my blood run cold when I think of what 
might happen to them others. Still, we’ll go back a mile 
or two ; and then, if we don’t find her, on we goes.’’’ 

Much discussion ensued about the matter; but it was 
resolved at last, that Taylor’s advice should be followed, 
and that, if at the end of another mile no trace of the 
missing lady should be discovered, the search should be 
abandoned. 

Scarcely had the stage travelled half that distance, when 
Taylor again stopped, and leaped to the ground with an 
exclamation of astonishment. Before another moment had 
elapsed, he was on his hands and knees attentively exam- 
ining the road. 

“ Darn me ! ” he cried in some excitement, “ if here 
ain’t more on ’em.” 

“ More what ” asked several voices, as one passenger 
after the other descended in haste from the stage. 

“Why, tracks, to be sure,” answered Taylor. “Just 
look here,” he continued, pointing to the ground : “ what 
do you call that "i ” 

The men bent down, and looked intently at the road, 
across which the tracks of horses’ hoofs were distinctly 
visible. 

“It’s no joke to get between two of them trails,” said 
Taylor anxiously. “ These last fellows can’t be very far 
off, either. Why, hallo ! ” he cried, rising suddenly, and 
going forward a few steps, “ what’s this .? Well, I never ! 
Just come here, gents.” 

He stooped down, and, picking up some object from the 
ground, held it triumphantly aloft in his outstretched hand. 


WHERE IS MRS. ALDERGROVE ? 


99 

It was a small piece of crape, such as might have been 
torn from a lady’s veil. 

The passengers gathered about him, all talking excitedly 
in concert. Mrs. Aldergrove and Margaret leaned forward 
from the stage-window, and looked intently at Taylor. 

“What have you there } ” inquired Margaret with forced 
calmness. “ What have you found ? ” 

“A piece of the poor lady’s veil, miss,” replied Taylor, 
approaching the stage. “ The redskins must have carried 
her off. What do you say } ” he asked, turning to the 
others. 

“ Oh ! my poor, poor cousin,” cried Mrs. Aldergrove, 
placing her handkerchief to her eyes. “This is too horri- 
ble. O Cordelia ! what is to be done } ” 

While she was speaking. Professor Hoveden had turned 
away, and walked forward a little distance, attracted by 
something white which lay upon the ground. He picked it 
up unobserved, and glanced at it with curiosity. It was a 
handkerchief, evidently the property of the lost lady. He 
wound it about his fingers carelessly, and was on the point 
of going back to restore it to the supposed Hericourts, 
when a name written in one corner of it caught his eye. 
The letters were not very distinct, but they were suffi- 
ciently so to enable him to decipher them without much 
trouble. As he did so, a strange expression passed over 
his face, and a slight exclamation of astonishment escaped 
him. He stood for a moment irresolutely : then, placing 
the handkerchief in his pocket, he walked leisurely back 
to the rest of the party. 

“ I don’t see any use in goin’ any farther to look for 
her,” Taylor was saying. “Every minute makes the dan- 
ger worse in this place, and I’m dead certain sure that 
the redskins have got her. That bit of crape is about all 
you’ll ever see of her again.” 

“You are quite right,” said Margaret composedly. 


100 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


My aunt and I, hard as it is, have made up our minds 
that our cousin is lost. It would be more than selfish in 
us to keep you here longer. Pray leave us to ourselves, 
and turn back whenever you please, — the sooner the better 
if, as you say, danger threatens. Besides, every moment 
here calls up the most horrible visions.” 

She shuddered a little as she spoke, and, taking up a 
cloak, wrapped it about her shoulders. 

“ My poor Cordelia,” sobbed Mrs. Aldergrove. It is 
doubly hard for you, as you have recently been so ill. But 
be* strong if you can, and do not give way. Remember 
the life of usefulness before us, and trust in God, who does 
all things for the best.” 

“ Yes,” said Margaret calmly. She was sitting upright, 
her pale lips set and rigid, her eyes fixed, and vacant in ex- 
pression. 

“You must bear with us both. Professor Hoveden,” said 
Mrs. Aldergrove. “You can understand our affliction. 
Do not let the other passengers see or speak to us. We 
could not endure it, could we, Cordelia ? ” 

“No,” said Margaret mechanically. 

“ But may I not bring you some refreshment } ” asked 
the Professor, after having spoken a few words of polite 
sympathy. “A cup of strong coffee will do you both 
good.” 

The ladies assented ; and he went toward the fire, that 
had already been lighted. 

Mrs. Aldergrove drew nearer to her daughter. “They 
do not suspect,” she whispered cautiously. “They will 
never know. I think with you, Margaret, that God in- 
spiled the act.”. 

“Hush!” said Margaret, “we might be overheard. 
Do not speak to me. Remember the part you have to 
play.” 

They sat in silence for a few moments, until the Pro- 


WHERE IS MRS, ALDERGROVE ? 


lOI 


fessor brought them each a cup of coffee, and then with- 
drew to join the other passengers at breakfast. 

“ I suppose as long as the ladies is satisfied, you’re satis- 
fied too, gents,” said Taylor. 

‘‘Yes,” said the Professor, ‘‘we are quite satisfied.” He 
spoke in a forced, unnatural tone, which was at once ob- 
served by Glatz. 

“ Why, what the devil is the matter with you, Profes- 
sor } ” he asked, laying his hand on the latter’s arm. “ I 
never saw anybody look so queer in my life.” 

“ Come with me, Glatz : I have something to tell you,” 
replied the Professor, drawing him aside, and walking a 
few steps down the road. 

“ What is it, — more suspicions } ” inquired Glatz. “You 
can beat my wife at that sort of thing, hang me if you 
can’t ! Well, out with it, my dear sir. What have you dis- 
covered now ? ” 

“This,” said the Professor, drawing the handkerchief 
from his pocket. “ I found it below on the road.” 

“ And it belongs to the mi.^sing lady, I suppose,” said 
Glatz. “Let’s have a look at it.” 

“ By all means,” answered the Professor. “ Do you ob- 
serve any thing strange about it, Glatz .? ” 

“Any thing strange.^ No, I can’t say that I do. It’s 
pretty much like any other handkerchief, so far as I can 
see. If my wife were here, however, she would see some- 
thing strange about it, I’ll warrant. She is the greatest 
woman for finding out things that I ever came across. 
Did I ever tell you about my wife and the microscope. Pro- 
fessor ? ” 

“ Yes, I know all about it, Glatz. But I see they are 
preparing to move on,” said the Professor, “so we have 
no time to lose in idle discussion. Look in the corner of 
the handkerchief, and read the name written there. Can 
you make it out } ” 


102 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


“Well, yes, I think I can. It’s Anastasia Hericourt as 
plain as day,” said Glatz. “ By Jove, Professor,” he cried 
suddenly, “ that is queer, and no mistake ! ” 

“ Yes, it is rather peculiar,” said the Professor dryly. 

“ Looks a little like foul play, eh } ” inquired the other in 
a whisper. 

“ I am not prepared to say. But the finding of this 
handkerchief has not lessened my suspicions concerning 
those two women,” said the Professor with emphasis. “ I 
shall watch them now more closely than before. Did you 
notice any thing unusual in their manner when the alarm 
was given this morning ? ” 

“Nothing more than could reasonably be expected, 
under the circumstances.” 

“Well, I did. I thought they were trying to conceal 
something, — their real feelings, I mean. And, when Hey- 
ward mentioned somnambulism. Miss Cordelia jumped at 
the suggestion instantly. Even now a close observer 
might see that fear, not grief, is the chief passion that 
sways them.” 

“It looks bad, certainly,” said Glatz gloomily. “What 
are you going to do with the handkerchief } ” 

“ Keep it,” replied the Professor briefly, restoring it to 
his pocket as he spoke. “ It may be of use hereafter. But 
do not speak of it, Glatz.” 

They reached the stage at this moment, where all was 
in readiness for the continuation of the journey. The 
buffalo-robe had again been arranged as a partition, and 
the curtains belonging to the ladies’ compartment were 
closely drawn. All was silent within. 

“I believe you are right. Professor,” whispered Glatz. 
“There’s something wrong about those two women. Pd 
give my head to know what they are doing in there.” 

The Professor made no answer. The passengers took 
their seats once more, and the driver gathered up the reins. 


WHERE IS MRS. ALDERGROVE? IO3 

‘‘ Papa,” said little Castaly Fielding, as Bill Taylor 
cracked his whip, and the horses sprang forward, “ I 
would like to tell you something. I think I had a queer 
dream last night. May I tell you, papa } ” 

‘‘Not now, Castaly,” said Mr. Fielding, who was thought- 
ful and pre-occupied. 

“It was about that poor lady who fell out,” said the 
child, looking disappointed. “ I thought you might like to 
hear it, papa.” 

“Some other time, my dear,” replied Mr. Fielding, 
patting her cheek kindly. “ And now,” he continued, 
turning to the others, “ do you think we could dispel a 
part of our gloom with the divine odor of tobacco } ” 

“ We can at least make the attempt,” answered Glatz. 
“ So, gentlemen, let us light our pipes.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


BROKEN FETTERS. 

“ Car sans la liberte, quelle union existerait-il entre les hommes? Ils seront unis 
comme le cheval est uni a celui qui le monte, comme le fouet du niaitre a la peau de 
I’esclave.” — Lamennais ; Paroles d 'un Croyant. 

It must not be supposed that Padre Lamont had come 
to his determination hastily, nor was he actuated to it by 
any other motive than a purely conscientious one. It has 
already been intimated, if not said, that he was by no 
means bigoted in his religious views ; and of late much 
reflection had tended to increase the liberality of his opin- 
ions. He was one who, when not actively employed in 
the exercise of his duties, spent his time in earnest study. 
It was impossible, therefore, that, during the long hours 
passed in company with the most enlightened philosophers 
of the past and present, and having, moreover, a mind well 
opened to receive each new impression as it presented it- 
self, he should not have risen gradually to regard the 
essence of matters and things with greater reverence than 
the mere forms which represented it. He had, however, 
never thought seriously of casting away his vows (for, after 
all, they afforded him many opportunities for doing good), 
until the suspicion of his growing attachment to Cordelia 
Hericourt arose. The idea of any tender feeling on her 
part for him had as yet hardly occurred to him, or, if so, 
but dimly. The love which had taken root in his heart 


104 


BROKEN FETTERS. 


105 


some time ago had put forth countless branches, which, 
unknown to him, had twined themselves about every fibre 
of his being ; and now that he had become aware of this, 
his horror and shame knew no bounds. And with it all 
was something he was unable to understand, — an eleva- 
tion of sentiment, a dignity of character, that astonished 
him, — until it came before him with a feeling of intense 
pleasure, that a love which ennobled, rendered every 
object in life beautiful, and raised his whole nature to a 
point hitherto unattained, could not be sinful or degrading. 
He took, with trembling hands, book after book from his 
small library, seeking to justify himself by every wise pre- 
cept of philosophy. The priesthood, — what was it } What 
were vows made in the first flush of youthful enthusiasm 
and inexperience ? He tried to put aside the thought of 
Cordelia, and to look at the matter from a disinterested 
point. If he could bring himself honestly to believe that 
he would have renounced his vows independently of Cor- 
delia, and merely from the force of his convictions, what 
an immense relief he might experience ! This was what 
he tried to discover. 

In the meanwhile he passed two sleepless nights and 
days alone in his study, now reading, now pacing the floor 
with restless strides, and, again, sitting motionless, his head 
bowed upon his hands. Occasionally he would throw him- 
self on his bed, to seek, if possible, a few moments’ repose ; 
but his excited brain passed rapidly from one reflection to 
another, from close observations to those that were vague 
and remote. All the while he sought, with determination, 
to concentrate his ideas upon the one point which doubt 
left open ; and, even when he had almost decided it to his 
satisfaction, his scrupulous honesty caused him to hesitate, 
and inquire still further. He did not fear the result of this 
investigation. He was independent enough to have long 
since recognized the fact, that a certain liberty is essential 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


io6 

to true greatness of character, and that it holds forth to 
the individual the privilege of living his life in his own 
way. 

As Padre Lament thought deeply upon the matter, he 
was able, by degrees, to regard his own sentiments with 
something very like an increase of self-respect. He felt 
it to be his duty, however, to communicate his decision to 
the Bishop, as the head of the diocese ; and this was any 
thing but an agreeable task. It was not that he dreaded 
the anger of his superior, nor the cold contempt which 
would probably follow it ; but he hated the thought of 
being forced to reveal his reasons to another, and, above 
all, laying bare his cherished secret, which was to him 
sacred, and which he knew the Bishop’s keen penetration 
would soon discover. 

He put off the evil day as long as possible : then, gath- 
ering resolution, he summoned all his courage, and pre- 
sented himself before the Bishop. 

Bishop Lambert, in many respects, was harmless enough. 
He enjoyed the reputation of being extremely clever, for 
his conversation was considered by the dwellers in Santa 
Fe to be brilliant. A discerning mind, however, might 
easily see that he was merely one of those lesser lumina- 
ries which shine by means of rays borrowed from greater 
ones. Just as the Pope’s secretary owes all his opinions 
to the intelligence of his spiritual master, so did the Bishop 
derive his wit and his theories from minds more illustrious 
than his own. When Padre Lament was ushered into his 
presence, he found him reclining upon an easy-chair, with 
a volume of some humorous French writer of the last 
century upon his knee. 

“Ah! Padre Lament,” he said, with a lazy smile, ex- 
tending three fingers in greeting. “ It is not often that I 
have the pleasure of receiving a visit from you. I am 
very glad to see you looking so well. And may I ask how 


BROKEN FETTERS. 


107 


the work is progressing ? Not discouraged, I hope, 
eh ? ” 

“No, your Grace,” replied Lament, taking a chair in 
front of the Bishop. His courage almost failed him as 
he looked at his companion’s round, good-natured face, 
upon which he had seen occasionally an expression of 
malicious anger ; and he glanced about the room, in the 
hope of diverting his mind, and gaining confidence. 

“ The people,” said the Bishop, referring, doubtless, to 
the natives of Santa Fe, “are a very bad set, I acknowl- 
edge. The man who is able to instil into their minds any 
notions of . truth or honesty, and incite them to even an 
occasional good action, will have accomplished a noble 
work.” He sought in his memory for some apt quotation, 
but, finding none, continued in an easy tone, “You, my 
dear padre, have been particularly successful. Where 
others have failed, or proved themselves to be unworthy 
of their trust, you have pressed steadily onward to distinc- 
tion, and have thereby gained the respect and affection 
of all with whom you have come in contact. The Church 
regards you — will ever regard you, I hope — as one of 
her shining lights and dearest treasures.” 

“Your Grace is too partial,” stammered Lament. “I 
have done nothing. If, perhaps, I have gained esteem, 
and been moderately successful in my work, it has been 
owing more to circumstances than to any actual merit on 
my part.” He hesitated, hardly knowing what to say 
next. 

“You do yourself m.]\xst\CQ, padre inio,'' said the Bishop 
kindly. “ From the position I occupy, I can observe much 
which qualifies me to express a decided opinion in regard 
to you. There is not your equal in the whole diocese.” 

“ Pray, say no more,” began Lament, extending his hand 
with a quick gesture, and then withdrawing it as suddenly. 
“ You deceive yourself. I am not what you think me, — 


io8 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


what your generosity leads you to suppose. It is for this 
reason that I came here to-day. For a long time/’ he 
went on, speaking in a low, hurried tone, “I have felt 
incapacitated for the work I have been doing. It is not 
that I think myself unable to accomplish good, or to meet 
with favorable results in my undertakings, but simply be- 
cause I am convinced I could be just as true a friend to 
the Church and humanity were I differently situated. 
Wait a moment,” he interposed, seeing the Bishop about 
to speak; ‘^hear me, and then judge me as you will. 
When I entered the priesthood, I was little more than a 
boy ; but I did so honestly convinced that I should find in 
my profession the requirement of every need. And I did, 
up to a certain point. When I came to Santa Fe, and saw 
opportunities here for bringing the wretched inhabitants 
to a more enlightened state, while the field for individual 
improvement was apparently unlimited, I thought I had 
nothing left to desire. Every day the consciousness of 
having advanced a step made me doubly zealous on the 
morrow.. It seemed to me,” he continued, with a faint 
flush of excitement, ^‘that in time, amid such surround- 
ings, I might rise above every petty earthly consideration, 
and devote my whole life to the service of the Church in 
a manner dreamed of by many, but seldom carried out, 
even by a few. Then, all at once, a feeling of discontent 
crept upon me. I thought I could work more happily 
and easily were I not bound by any ties. I had read much 
philosophy, your Grace, and discovered that the soul which 
is chained, even though the links be of silver and gold, 
can never thoroughly be itself. I became constrained and 
uneasy, but at that time I had no intention of renouncing 
my vows. It was not until ” — He stopped abruptly, 
and bit his lip, as though suffering some acute physical 
pain. 

While Lament was speaking, the Bishop’s features had 


BROKEN FETTERS. 


109 


undergone a marked change. At first his expression had 
been one of utter amazement and incredulity : now it was 
both sorrowful and angry. The cheerful light had faded 
from his eyes, and given way to a pained look of annoy- 
ance. 

“Padre Lamont,” he said presently, “surely I misun- 
derstand you. You have hinted at a desire to retire from 
the priesthood. You certainly cannot mean that. Pray 
express yourself more clearly.” He leaned forward, as if 
in eagerness to discover his mistake. 

“Alas!” said Lament sadly, “you have understood me 
but too well. I do mean to renounce my vows. I am not 
fitted for the Church, for the life is not one that satisfies 
me. Do not think, however, that it is my intention to let 
my energies lie dormant. I will work in the interest of 
our holy faith, even if my principles draw me away from 
its immediate influence. I should be a coward otherwise. 
Only, I cannot bear to think I am held in subjection.” 

“Ah 1 can you call it subjection } ” asked the Bishop, in 
a tone of mingled surprise and mortification. “Are we 
ever slaves to those we love Your words pain me be- 
yond measure : you do not know what you are saying.” 

Lament did not reply. His eyes wandered restlessly 
from the Bishop to the table, and then to the window. 
The atmosphere without was damp and heavy. A light 
rain was falling, and the street seemed deserted ; for no 
sound was heard anywhere, save from the carved wooden 
clock on the Bishop’s mantel-piece. 

“ I am not moved by a sudden impulse,” he went on, 
after a short silence. “You wi^l never know — no one 
will ever know — how much all this has cost me. Look 
at me,” he continued, stretching forth both hands, and 
resting his eyes fearlessly upon the Bishop’s face: “you 
can see that I have passed sleepless nights, and days 
made weary by continual conflict. I have thought to lose 


no 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


my self-respect by leaving the Church. I know now that 
I can forfeit it only by remaining within its precincts.” 

‘‘ Take care ! ” said the Bishop, holding up a warning 
finger, on which sparkled a brilliant ruby. “ Do not say 
that of which you may repent in an hour’s time.” 

“ I have already told you that I am not speaking has- 
tily,” said Lament, “and that I have given the matter due 
reflection.” 

The Bishop lay back in his chair, and thoughtfully 
tapped his book with his fingers. His eyes were down- 
cast, so that Lament could not observe their expression ; 
but presently they were raised to his own, and he saw they 
were filled with keen disappointment. The sight caused 
him a momentary pang ; for he liked his superior, and 
regretted that he should suffer on account of one in whom 
he had placed, apparently, such implicit confidence. 

“And have you no other motive.?” asked the Bishop, 
with a quick glance at his companion. “ Is your desire 
to renounce the vows you voluntarily assumed founded 
solely upon this absurd longing for freedom, — freedom 
which would be far removed from your thoughts were 
your heart sincere, and filled with the light of true 
religion .? ” 

Lamont hesitated. The moment, he knew, had come 
when he must lay bare the secret of his love to profane 
eyes, wherein it was impossible for a shadow of sympathy 
to dwell. Probably the honesty and sincerity of his 
nature had never been of greater use to him than they 
were now. He drew himself up, with a gesture almost of 
defiance, and answered deliberately, — 

“Yes, your Grace, there is another motive, — one which 
I can, however, truthfully call secondary. Perhaps, un- 
consciously, one has instigated the other. I am not 
quite sure. But, be that as it may, my determination is 
unalterable. With my present thoughts and feelings, and 


BROKEN FETTERS. 


Ill 


looking calmly upon the. change which of late has taken 
place in my life, I can plainly see that I must renounce all 
active interest in the Church.” As he paused, the Bishop 
crossed his legs, and joined the tips of his fingers to- 
gether, while a somewhat cynical smile passed over his 
lips. 

“So you are in love,” he said. “I thought as much. 
‘ Cherchez la femme' must always be our cry in things of 
this sort, as well as every other. That you, however, 
above all, should be moved to pursue your present course 
for any such paltry reason,” he added severely, “aston- 
ishes as much as it grieves me. I had thought you supe- 
rior to the petty passions by which ordinary men are 
swayed. I supposed that your heart, your life, your very 
soul, were bound up in your faith, and the work to which 
you had been- appointed. How many times have you told 
me your sole happiness consisted in the good which was 
being accomplished by your own efforts ! Will you, can 
you, desert the noble cause you have voluntarily under- 
taken and sworn to defend ? Will you deliberately turn 
your back upon the Church when she has most need of 
you ? Think, Lamont ! Think, I implore you ! ” The 
Bishop said the last words in a tone of subdued excite- 
ment. For a moment Lamont was impressed, and his 
mind involuntarily recalled the scruples and doubts by 
which he had been assailed in the beginning. But it was 
only for a moment. 

“It is impossible,” he said, with determination, “that 
you should regard the matter as I do. You cannot know 
all that passes, all that has already passed, in my mind. 
And it would be a useless task for me to attempt to ex- 
plain it to you. I ‘Should but wound your sensibilities, 
shock, perhaps, your most cherished principles, — and to 
what end ? I should not convince you that I am right ; 
and no arguments of yours could alter my decision, which 


1 12 A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 

has cost me a struggle greater, probably, than any you 
have ever known.” He had dropped his defiant tone, and 
was speaking almost sadly. For an instant the Bishop 
seemed moved by something closely resembling pity. 

A\\, padre into!” he said, “I little expected this from 
you. I cannot express the extent of my sorrow and dis- 
appointment. O my son, pray consider what you are 
about to do ! If you are really in earnest, 1 pity you from 
the depths of my heart ; but my pity is not unmixed with 
scorn. You are wantonly throwing aside the protecting 
arm of our Holy Church ; you are repaying her care with 
base ingratitude; you will turn her proud and loving 
smile into bitter tears. Can I say nothing to persuade 
you, Lamont Far be it from me to force your inclina- 
tions. I would have you come to me of your own free 
will, and say, ‘I have been mistaken. My happiness is 
not where I supposed. It is, and always will be, embod- 
ied in our holy faith.’ O Lamont ! the day will come 
when this must be expressed in thought, though it be too 
late to put it into words. What then will be your posi- 
tion You will recognize your fatal error; and yet the 
price must be paid, — paid by the sacrifice of your life, 
perhaps of your soul.” 

Lamont smiled faintly at this fervent appeal, and shook 
his head. His courage had returned tenfold since the 
confession of his love had been made. He felt a fresh 
stimulus to attain his end, incited thereto by mere disdain 
of the obstacles that presented themselves. He made a 
motion as if to speak, but the Bishop interrupted him. 

“ I cannot imagine,” he said, letting his small, piercing 
eyes rest upon Lamont’s face, why this determination 
should have come to you now. At this moment you 
occupy an enviable position in regard to the Church. 
You have never been so beloved as now ; and, not three 
weeks ago, no one was more zealous than you in the dis- 


BROKEN FETTERS. 


II3 

charge of his duties. You tell me you have two motives 
upon which rests the decision you have made. One is 
your convictions, if I mistake not; the other, your love 
for a woman. Am I right } ” 

There was no immediate answer. Lament’s slender 
fingers crushed the hat he held, and his face grew a shade 
paler. His lips were pressed tightly together, but his 
expression was again somewhat defiant. 

The Bishop regarded him fixedly for a moment, and 
then a smile of relief overspread his features. “ At last 
I have fathomed you, dear padre ! ” he exclaimed triumph- 
antly. “ It is merely a case of excessive work and ner- 
vous exhaustion with you. Your constant labors have 
been too much for you. Go away somewhere, and rest. 
Go to the south of France ; and there, in the bracing air 
of the Pyrenees, with nothing to tax your mind, you will 
regain your health. We shall then hear no more of this 
frightful idea about the renunciation of your vows.” 

Again Lamont shook his head, with a sad smile. 

“ Why did not the truth strike me before ? ” resumed 
the Bishop. “You say you have passed sleepless nights, 
and you are certainly troubled with morbid fancies. The 
slightest thing disturbs you apparently. You are de- 
pressed in spirits ; and your power of application is^ for 
the time being, destroyed. You hate the things you once 
loved, and you think you love things you formerly hated. 
My son,” he added, leaning forward to regard Lamont 
attentively, “the idea of this love which now oppresses 
you is but a delusion due to your abnormal condition. 
^ Pfaffcn lachen junge Weiber auch gern an! — even priests 
smile pleasantly on young women, as the proverb says,” 
continued his Grace, with a laugh. “ Shall I confess to 
you, that I, years ago, was similarly affected, but that com- 
plete mental rest, change of scene and associations, and 
God’s holy guidance, enabled me to pass through the 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


II4 

ordeal unscathed? So it will be with you. You will go 
to France, and return in a year to your work, with renewed 
ardor.” 

“You are possibly in the right,” Lament answered. “I 
may be mentally weak, — sometimes I think I am ; but 
whether or not this be the case,” he continued vehemently, 
“ my determination is taken, and past recall. If it is the 
result of a disordered mind, God will hold me guiltless. 
If, on the contrary, I have rfiy full reason, the responsibility 
will be my own; and I will manfully avow it to Him.” 

“You are talking blasphemy,” cried the Bishop in an 
angry tone. “But I see how it is. You are temporarily 
blinded by a vulgar passion. You speak to me of princi- 
ples and convictions, when in reality it is your inclinations 
that lead you. You will calmly perjure yourself for a 
woman. May God forgive you ! I cannot.” 

Lament was silent. Large drops stood upon his fore- 
head, and he was plainly striving his utmost to control the 
feelings that swayed him. 

The Bishop watched him narrowly. Twice Lament 
made an effort to speak, and failed : the third time he suc- 
ceeded. 

“Perhaps,” he said slowly, uttering his words with diffi- 
culty, “you are right in the main. I do not seek to excuse 
myself. I have nothing to say in my own behalf. But 
believe me when I assert that I am conscious of acting 
honestly. I do love a woman — one so pure — so good ” — 
He hesitated, seeing the Bishop make a disparaging ges- 
ture, and bit his lip. “ It is useless to prolong the dis- 
cussion,” he added. “I have little hope indeed of being 
understood. He who would gain any thing from life, must 
be content with the consciousness of well-doing, and be 
willing to do without the appreciation of others. As for 
the Church, it will be better off without me. There are 
many workers besides myself, — many who, doubtless, will 


BROKEN FETTERS. 


II5 

give you no reason to regret having appointed them. 
There is Padre Delatour, for instance, who for some time 
has been my subordinate, and who is energetic and faith- 
ful. Pray ask him to take my place. He will be glad of 
the opportunity of improving his position. The work I 
have begun will be carried on by him satisfactorily, I am 
sure. And now, your Grace, nothing remains to be said 
except to bid you farewell. I shall send you the formal 
renunciation of my vows to-night.” 

He rose from his chair as he spoke, his tall figure drawn 
up almost haughtily, his voice betraying calm deliberation. 

“Yes,” said the Bishop in a low tone, “I will appoint 
Padre Delatour. He, at least, will be faithful, as you have 
intimated. Go, if you will, Lamont, but take with you 
my scorn and contempt. You have outraged the Church, 
which has been to you a true and loving mother. No 
longer will her arms be opened to afford you divine pro- 
tection. You have degraded yourself, and your conduct 
must excite the disgust of every true Catholic. What if I 
should publicly announce your shame } Could you endure 
this, Lamont.^ Think again : it is not too late.” 

“Yes,” he answered steadily: “ I could endure this, and 
much more.” 

“ From another I could have borne it better. But you, 
Lamont, who have been the brightest hope of the Church, 
— my right hand, as it were ! ” The Bishop said the last 
words tremulously. Then, with a sigh, he turned away, 
and, leaning back in his chair, shaded his eyes with both 
hands. 

Lamont stood motionless for a moment, regarding him 
sorrowfully. He felt animated by a keen sense of pity. 
Presently he left the room noiselessly, and descended to 
the street, where the rain still fell in misty torrents. 

In spite of the painful impressions caused by the inter- 
view, he experienced a strange sensation of relief. The 


Il6 A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 

drops that fell upon his face cooled his heated forehead, 
and seemed to refresh every faculty. He looked upon 
himself almost in the light of a hero. 

“To have made a determination,” he thought, “and to 
have announced it boldly : to fight against opposition, and 
to be willing to fight to the end for the sake of my con- 
victions, — is surely a gain. I have lost nothing, and 
have advanced in my individual attainments. But whither 
will it all lead me ? Everywhere, perhaps, except to the 
desired end. My happiness, if ever I possessed it, is a 
thing of the past.” He drew a deep breath involuntarily. 
Then, buttoning closely about him the long cassock which 
he wore for the last time, he strode off into the leaden 
atmosphere. 


CHAPTER XV. 


AN INTERVIEW. 

“ A mind might ponder its thought for ages, and not gain so much self-knowledge 
as the passion of love shall teach it in a day.” — Emerson, 

There was a good deal of excitement in Santa Fe when 
it became known that Padre Lament had renounced the 
priesthood. The reasons given for the act were many 
and various ; but, as is usual in such cases, the absence of 
definite knowledge did not prevent the people from ex- 
pressing their opinions. It mattered little to Lamont 
what they said. In his first moments of freedom, his ex- 
alted spirits, born of the consciousness of having gained 
a victory over himself and others, left no room in his mind 
for any thing else. With the full sense of his altered posi- 
tion before him, the world seemed to have grown brighter 
and fairer. That penetrating and absorbing enthusiasm 
which usually comes to us only in early youth had taken 
entire possession of him. This was, of course, tempo- 
rary ; for he had, so far, neglected to view the facts of the 
case in their entirety. But he knew that the greatest 
struggle of all was yet to come, and that his present satis- 
faction served for it only as a limited oblivion. When the 
mood passed, as it did shortly, life appeared to him in an 
unfamiliar form, so broad and incomprehensible, that he 
doubted whether he would ever be able either to grasp or 

to understand it. His restless mind, leaping boldly from 

117 


ii8 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


one conclusion to another, formed no ideas that in them- 
selves were definite and lasting. He felt impatient to see 
Cordelia, and yet shrank involuntarily from the thought of 
meeting her, attracted by inclination, and repelled by fear 
of weakness. He was confident that his momentary for- 
getfulness during their last interview had surprised and 
shocked her, and he wondered dimly what her feelings 
would be when the knowledge of that which he had since 
done should reach her. He had little hope of gaining im- 
mediately either her approbation or her sympathy, and 
upon this hypothesis a great deal of his courage depended. 
With his course of action plainly marked out for him, and 
with the firm determination to follow it regardless of per- 
sonal desire, her disapproval was perhaps preferable to her 
admiration. Lamont was, after all, but human, and conse- 
quently not exempt from certain kinds of weakness. Still, 
the resolution which of late he had been forced to practise 
had not been without its effect ; and he felt, in a measure, 
prepared to endure much more than he had done already. 
It was in this spirit that he determined to go to Cordelia, 
and explain himself frankly, revealing every sentiment and 
doubt which he had experienced for months past. He had 
enough confidence in her to feel sure she would prefer 
the most unpleasant truth to the mere suspicion of dis- 
honesty ; and he resolved to hide nothing, which, if con- 
cealed, might place him in a more favorable light. 

It had been his intention to go to the convent on the 
morning following his conversation with the Bishop ; but 
the unsettled state of his mind caused him to delay the 
visit until late in the afternoon, two days later. 

When he reached the entrance, and opened the heavy 
iron gate, he stopped for a moment in the garden, to resolve 
more definitely than he had yet done upon what he should 
do and say. As he stood upon the broad gravel-path, and 
inhaled the rich perfume of the roses and carnations which 


AN INTER F/EW. 


II9 

blossomed on each side in crimson luxuriance, varied 
sensations, difficult to define, arose within him. Like most 
intellectual natures. Lament was extremely sensitive to 
impressions. The intense silence, broken only by the 
steady splash of the fountain, and the occasional buzzing 
of a locust ; the rays of warm sunlight which fell obliquely 
across the tall, waving grass, — affected him strangely. 
He felt one inspiration after another flash through his mind 
like lightning. There were about him countless influences 
which he knew ought somehow to be retained ; and yet he 
was perfectly sure, that in Cordelia’s presence they would 
pass from his recollection like a dream. 

When he finally knocked at the convent-door, it seemed 
to hirn that he had remained in the garden for hours, 
each moment possessing a vivid significance of its own. 
He was, however, calm and collected, standing with his 
arms folded across his breast, the result of long habit, 
his proudly raised head displaying the firm lines of mouth 
and chin. 

Sister Josefa, who admitted him, glanced at him curi- 
ously. He wore the ordinary dress of a citizen ; but, apart 
from this, the rumor of his broken vows must already have 
reached Our Lady of Guadaloupe. Lamont, quick to ob- 
serve, noticed at once the nun’s neglect to address him 
with the familiar padre mio ; and he saw, too, that, in spite 
of her reserved and courteous manner, her ordinary smile 
of welcome was lacking. 

She left him alone for a few moments, and returned 
presently to say that Miss Hericourt was indisposed, and 
begged to be excused, but that the Superior desired to 
speak with him privately. Lamont felt instinctively that 
Cordelia’s message was but a pretext to avoid meeting 
him; but the purpose for which he had come there, he 
meant to accomplish if possible. As he followed Sister 
Josefa to the Superior’s room, he wondered what he should 


120 


A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE, 


do to obtain the interview he desired. He had always 
been on the most friendly terms with the Superior, but he 
had little hope that she would endeavor to further his in- 
terests now that he had lost all claim to her regard. As 
he entered her presence, her rather hard face was unusu- 
ally severe ; and she took no notice of the hand he extended 
toward her. 

She motioned him to a seat, however, and waited for 
him to speak. 

It was good in you to send for me,” he said frankly, 
although I know your friendship for me is at an end. 
You have heard, doubtless, of what has happened; and 
you can naturally look at it only in one light, — that of 
horror and disgust.” 

He spoke as if half in hope that she would contradict 
him. The Superior lowered her eyes, and did not reply 
for some moments. When she spoke at last, the tones of 
her voice sounded hard. 

“ I do know what has happened,” she said slowly. “The 
knowledge of your act has just been brought to us, and 
you are right in supposing that my feelings toward you 
have changed. I am disappointed in you, — disappointed 
and horrified. Our blessed Church has given you so much, 
and you have returned her loving care with mean ingrati- 
tude.” Her voice faltered a little, but she quickly recov- 
ered herself. “You can understand,” she said calmly, 
“that no friendship can exist longer between us, — that, 
indeed, I would never look upon your face again. A 
traitor to the cause he has espoused has no place beneath 
this roof.” 

“I am not surprised that you should speak so,” Lamont 
said, looking at her half sadly. “ I did not expect to pre- 
serve your good opinion. I knew beforehand that opposi- 
tion from all connected with the Church would meet me. 
But my motives” — 


AN INTERVIEW. 


I2I 


“Motives!” she interrupted, with a tinge of disdain in 
her voice. “ I do not inquire into them, for they are of no 
consequence. It is enough for me to see their result.” 

“Could you look into my heart,” said Lamont, “you 
would, I think, retract those words. However, I have not 
come here to discuss the matter with you. It is about 
Miss Hericourt that I wish to talk to you. I have some- 
thing important to say to her, and I desire to see her for a 
few moments. She has sent me a message to the effect 
that she is indisposed; but I am sure, did she know of what 
I intend to speak, she would grant me an interview. Will 
you tell her } Do not refuse me,” he added quickly. “ I 
have no right, I am aware, to ask any thing of you ; but you 
have known me long, and once you were my friend. Pray 
do not say no. I shall not be here for any length of time, 
for I feel that I must leave Santa Fe as soon as possible. 
I fear that I have had the misfortune to offend Miss 
Hericourt, and I seek merely an explanation before my 
departure. Go to her, mother. Tell her I am going away, 
and ask but to speak to her for a few moments.” 

“ You ask this of me } Impossible I ” said the Superior 
angrily. “ You shall not corrupt the heart of the innocent 
child who has been confided to our keeping, — whom you 
yourself brought here to receive our care and instruction. 
You must be mad.” She turned away her head, and 
tapped impatiently with her fingers upon the arms of her 
chair. 

“Then, you refuse,” said Lamont, after a short pause. 
“ I do my duty,” replied the Superior, looking at him half 
defiantly. “ Cordelia is under my protection, and I am 
responsible for her moral and spiritual welfare.” 

“Very well,” said Lamont, rising. “I must then adopt 
another course of action. I asked you because you had 
once been my friend, and I thought a trace of your former 
feeling for me might remain. But, since it is not so, I will 


122 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


request one of the sisters to do for me what your con- 
science will not allow you to perform.” 

“Stop ! ” cried the Superior, rising also, and facing him. 
“ I am mistress here, and no one will disobey my orders. 
You shall not see Cordelia Hericourt.” Her breath came 
thick and fast, while her small dark eyes flashed with sup- 
pressed rage. 

“ Not if she persist in refusing to see me,” Lament said 
calmly. “ But it is she who shall decide the matter, and 
no one else.” 

“No,” cried the Superior. “I have said that I am mis- 
tress here.” She began to pace the floor excitedly, her 
long black gown sweeping the carpet noiselessly, the cross 
and chain hanging from her belt striking the large bunch 
of keys by her side with an unmusical sound. Lamont stood 
still, and watched her. He could hardly believe her to be 
the woman whose suave and gentle demeanor he had for- 
merly so greatly admired. Her once calm and elevated 
nature seemed to be suddenly transformed into one that 
was vulgar and commonplace. Nevertheless, he resolved 
to let neither her words nor her manner affect his de- 
cision in regard to Cordelia. The Superior came close 
to him presently, and he saw that tears stood in her 
eyes. 

“ What have you done ? What have you done ? ” she 
cried brokenly. “ Oh, how could you perjure yourself, — 
you, whom I thought the soul of honor ! ” She sank into 
a chair, and covered her face with both hands. 

“ I am not here to discuss my reasons with you,” said 
Lamont coldly. “ I have asked you to render me a slight 
service, and you have refused. There is no need of further 
conversation between us.” He opened the door to leave 
the room ; but the Superior, springing to her feet, detained 
him. The tears were still wet upon her cheeks, but her 
eyes flashed with renewed anger. 


AN INTERVIEW. 1 23 

“You shall not!” she exclaimed. “ You shall not see 
her ! No one in this house dares to disobey me 1 ” 

Lament gazed at her for an instant, and hesitated : 
then he shook off her clasp, and, turning, with his hand 
still upon the half-open door, came face to face with Cor- 
delia herself, who was about to enter. He fell back a step, 
and Cordelia’s pale face flushed crimson. The Superior 
started forward, brushing away the traces of tears upon 
her cheeks. 

“Go, Cordelia, go!” she cried. “You must not come 
here, my child. Pray return to your room.” 

“Cordelia — Miss Hericourt !” exclaimed Lament has- 
tily, “ I implore you, do not send me away without a word. 
You cannot refuse to speak to me for a few moments.” 

“Do not listen to him,” cried the Superior excitedly. 
“ No honest Catholic can have aught to do with a priest 
so degraded as he.” She advanced toward Cordelia, and 
tried to lead her away ; but the latter gently disengaged 
herself. 

“Why, mother,” she said, “what has happened and 
why do you speak so of Padre Lament.^” 

“You will soon know,” answered the Superior; “but it 
is I who will tell you, and not he.” 

“That is for you to decide, Cordelia,” said Lament 
quickly. “ Something has happened that I desire to tell 
you. Grant me but half an hour : you will not regret it.” 

“ Say no, Cordelia,” almost screamed the Superior. 
“My child, you cannot know all that is at stake. Be 
firm, and do not yield to the entreaties of this ” — 

“ No more ! ” said Lament, speaking impatiently for the 
first time. “ When I am gone, you will have opportunity 
enough to poison her mind against me. Cordelia,” he 
added gently, “let me ask you again, — will you speak to 
me alone for a few moments ^ ” 

Cordelia hesitated, and he watched her eagerly. The 


124 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


Superior stood between them, her breast heaving with 
indignation, but cowed for the moment into silence by 
Lament’s last words to her. 

“ Yes,” said Cordelia presently. I will do as you wish. 
Padre Lament.” She spoke coldly, but he hardly noticed 
it in his sudden delight. 

“How is it possible,” said the Superior, “that you can 
listen to him in the face of my warning ^ You will repent 
of this, Cordelia.” She clasped her hands together ner- 
vously. “ You do not know what he has done,” she wailed. 
“You would turn from him in horror if you did.” 

“ Be that as it may, Cordelia has decided to let me speak 
to her,” said Lament. “But,” he added a little bitterly, 
“ do not fear that I shall seek to influence her in any way. 
I have something to tell her far different from what you 
suppose.” 

The Superior looked from one to the other, her brows 
knit in an angry frown. “ Be it as you will, Cordelia,” 
she said finally. “ I can only advise, and warn you of the 
danger that threatens. I cannot compel you. As for 
you,” she added, addressing Lament, “you know what I 
think of you and your conduct. God forbid that I should 
ever see you again ! ” She measured them both with a 
look of mingled contempt and disappointment : then she 
left the room silently, her hands pressed tightly against 
her breast. 

Cordelia appeared to be affected by none of the nervous- 
ness which the circumstances seemed to call forth. She 
was naturally surprised at the strange condition of affairs 
existing between Lament and the Superior, and quite at a 
loss to explain it. His former conduct had grieved and 
hurt her beyond measure, and for this reason she had 
deemed it better not to see him ; but feeling instinctively, 
after her message had been sent, that something of which 
she was ignorant had occurred, she resolved, notwithstand- 


AN INTERVIEW. 125 

ing the Superior’s entreaties, to grant Lamont the interview 
he demanded. 

She now sat down, and looked at him inquiringly, the 
only change from her ordinary manner being a lack of 
the ease which had always characterized her intercourse 
with him. Her calm dignity sobered him instantly, caus- 
ing every trace of his disquietude to vanish. 

It was this very reserve which made it difficult for him 
to speak. Had she shown any signs of timidity, he thought 
it would have been easier for him to make his confession. 
But, after one or two coldly uttered words, she sat silent, 
letting her eyes rest earnestly upon his face with an ex- 
pression half-wistful, half-wondering. Lamont felt that he 
must say something. He made a desperate effort, trying 
to control the tones of his voice, which did not sound 
natural. 

“ Miss Hericourt,” he began, “have I offended you past 
all hope of pardon.?” 

She did not answer, and he continued somewhat tim- 
idly, — 

“ You have every right to regard me with distrust, and I 
do not wonder that you shrink from me. And yet, when 
you have heard all I have to say, when you know through 
what fierce ordeals I have lately passed, you will pity me, 
even if you are unable to forgive.” He paused, and looked 
at her almost imploringly. “ I can see,” he went on, “that 
my words are scarcely understood by you. I do not think 
I am a weak man. I have always held irresolution in 
contempt. But now I find it hard to speak as I would. 
Can you give me no encouragement .? ” 

“For what. Padre Lamont.?” she asked with indiffer- 
ence. “ I do not know what you can have to say to 
me.” 

“I feared it would be so,” he answered bitterly. “Nev- 
ertheless,” he added more calmly, “I could never have 


126 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


imagined you to be so hard. Look at me, Cordelia. What 
does my face tell you ? I do not want you to point out 
any traces of suffering you may find there. I only desire 
that you should discover my honesty. Am I no longer 
your friend ? Have I lost all title to your regard ? Will 
you shut me out of your confidence forever, because in a 
moment of forgetfulness I let you see that I loved you } 
No,” he said with decision, interrupting the words which 
rose to her lips : hear what I have to say, while I have 
the strength to utter it. You are horrified at my declara- 
tion : you shut your eyes, for you fear to be contaminated 
merely by looking at me.” 

‘‘Oh, no! not that,” said Cordelia, for the first time 
displaying any emotion. “ But you were so near to me, 
and now you seem so far.” 

“Which means that you can trust me no longer,” he 
said sadly. “ Well, be it so. Perhaps, after all, you are 
right. It ought to take years of faithful and unselfish 
devotion to blot from your mind the remembrance of my 
words and acts ; and I will begin this day to outweigh, 
little by little, the wrong I have done you. And yet, 
when you know what has happened, you will despise me 
still more. Cordelia, I have renounced my vows. I am 
no longer a priest. Look at my dress : it speaks for me.” 
He stopped abruptly, overcome by the vehemence of his 
words. Cordelia bent forward, her face growing a shade 
paler than before. For a moment an expression of alarm 
swept over her features ; and, when she spoke, her tone 
was low and indistinct. 

“ Renounced your vows I ” she said, almost in a whisper. 
“Oh! no — no” — She drew back instinctively, holding 
both hands before her, as if to ward off some dreaded 
approach. 

“ Do not look so horrified,” cried Lament eagerly. 
“ When I tell you the whole sad story, you will surely no 


A AT INTERVIEW, 


127 


longer distrust me. I am not suited to the priesthood, 
and I have known it for some time. Besides this, I love 
you, — have loved you ever since we were first thrown 
together. I did not yield blindly to this passion, but, on 
the contrary, struggled against it with all the strength 
of which I was capable. It was then I discovered how 
poor and weak a thing human nature is ; for although 
individual traits, which chance had hitherto prevented 
from coming forward, were revealed to me in the conflict, 
I felt they were valueless unless directed in one particular 
course. Much that had been obscure to me before, be- 
came suddenly clear. But to what end } Only that I 
might the better perceive my love for you, and my inability 
to overcome it. Ah, Cordelia ! I think I lived years in 
those few days.” 

“ I cannot understand,” said Cordelia, still avoiding his 
glance, “ how you, a priest of the Church, could renounce 
your vows, — you who apparently knew so well how to live 
up to them.” 

The emotions incident to every hour,” continued La- 
ment, not heeding the interruption, “did more toward 
maturing my whole nature than months of ordinary ex- 
periences could have done. And with it all came determi 
nations which I felt must be acted upon. One has been 
successfully carried out. I have seen the Bishop, and 
stated my case to him frankly. I have boldly torn myself 
from the false position which I occupied. I did not trem- 
ble before the Bishop. I spoke to him as one man should 
speak to another. But with you it is different, and a 
thousand times more difficult. Your manner discourages 
me, and I am like a child in your hands. I know that I 
perhaps do not express myself as I should, — that I am not 
taking the proper way to regain the confidence you once 
gave me freely and fully. But I am hardly myself at this 
moment. Surely you can understand this.” 


128 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


Cordelia said nothing. Her face betrayed a cold and 
almost cruel indifference. 

“ Why do you not speak to me ? ” he asked unsteadily. 

“Because — because I cannot,” she said finally in an un- 
dertone. “And how would you have me speak, — you who 
have done so terrible a thing } A priest of the Church,” 
she added vehemently, “a stanch upholder of our faith, 
the most earnest worker in the cause of religion, to come 
to me with so degrading a confession ! No, certainly, I 
have nothing to say to you.” 

“Cordelia,” — he began, and went no farther. All the 
passion of his impetuous nature became suddenly aroused 
by her contemptuous words. The blood rushed in a hot 
wave to his face ; and for a few moments he dared not 
speak, lest he should lose control of himself. 

“I deserve, perhaps, all that you have said,” he ex- 
claimed at last, displaying but little trace of his momentary 
agitation. “ I have thought from the beginning that I 
was acting in a manner calculated to inspire the respect, 
even if not the approval, of every sincere nature. I must 
be wrong if you can take such a view of my conduct as 
you have just expressed. Your words have pained me, 
Cordelia : you fail, I think, to consider all the circumstances 
of the case. Had I not loved you, I could not have 
continued much longer in the service of the Church. I 
acknowledge that my feelings toward you may have led 
me to think more deeply than otherwise upon the matter, 
and inquire into my condition with special zeal ; but when, 
little by little, light and truth dawned upon me, I saw 
clearly, that, apart from you, I was swayed by other senti- 
ments. Do you not believe me ? Will you refuse still to 
listen to me ” 

“ I do not mean to be cruel,” said Cordelia with deter- 
mination, “but I cannot listen to you. I regret infinitely 
your act. You yourself will repent of it, I fear, before any 


AN INTERVIEW. 


129 


length of time has elapsed. What can be thought of a 
priest who renounces his vows, particularly for such rea- 
sons as you have revealed to me } ” 

“ Is it possible,” said Lament, as though speaking to 
himself, “that you can be so harsh, so inflexible ! When 
will you understand me } ” 

“ I understand you but too well,” she replied gravely. 
“ Will you hear me for a moment, as I have heard you 
When we first knew you,” she went on after a pause, “ I 
thought I might be perfected, both spiritually and men- 
tally, by your interest and companionship. I did not stop 
to inquire into the reasons for this ; but I was dimly con- 
scious that good ones were there, and that they consisted 
in your upright character, your integrity, your firm adher- 
ence to principle. And I was not mistaken. All this you 
had, and more. You say, that by degrees you found your- 
self unsuited to the calling you had chosen. Were this 
so, why not have made use of your noble qualities for the 
purpose of overcoming the temptation } I do not wish to 
be hard upon you. I am only a girl, and but a short time 
ago I was quick to recognize your superiority. But where 
now is that superiority 1 Have you shown yourself to be 
above the most ordinary nature.? Is it not a disgrace 
to have fallen from the heights which you yourself have 
built .? ” She kept her face averted. When Lamont spoke, 
it was in so low a tone that she could scarcely hear him. 

“Then,” he said, “you have nothing but contempt for 
me — contempt for my honesty — contempt for my love. 
I had thought that you would, at least, treat me without 
prejudice.” 

“I am not prejudiced,” she answered, speaking for the 
first time almost gently. “ And I do not mean to express 
contempt, but pity.” 

“ Pity ! ” cried Lamont passionately. “ Can you not see 
that your pity is the hardest thing for me to bear.? Con- 


130 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


tempt, even though deserved, is short lived generally, — but 
pity ! Oh,” he continued, after a pause, “ if you could only 
be a little more generous, — if you could treat me as a 
man, and not merely as a priest ! ” 

“ I would gladly do so if I could see that you had acted 
unselfishly in the matter,” exclaimed Cordelia. “ If you 
had renounced the priesthood from conviction, after ma- 
ture reflection, I could respect your honesty, however 
much I might lament the course of your thought, and the 
conclusion you had reached. But when, with the same 
breath that tells me of your apostasy,” she continued, her 
color rising, “ you avow a feeling unworthy of a priest, I 
can scarcely repress ” — 

‘‘ Stop ! ” said Lamont, lifting his hand, and speaking 
with measured calmness. ‘‘ Do not let us misunderstand 
each other. You think I have forsworn the priesthood 
merely because of my love for you. Clearly you do not 
know me. For, in abjuring my vows, I, at the same time, 
renounce you. I knew, when the conviction came upon 
me that I could no longer be happy as a priest, that the 
hope of winning you was at an end. I shall love you as 
long as I live, Cordelia, but I shall never ask you to be 
my wife; — and,” he added finally, ‘‘I shall probably never 
see you again.” 

While they were speaking, the twilight had gradually 
deepened. Each could just catch the outline of the other’s 
figure ; and Cordelia saw that Lamont had bent forward, 
and buried his face in both hands. Just then the door 
was opened softly ; and one of the sisters appeared with a 
lamp, which she placed silently upon the table, leaving the 
room with her noiseless tread immediately afterward. 

Say no more to me,” exclaimed Cordelia hurriedly. I 
cannot bear it.” Her voice gave evidence of a strong emo- 
tion ; and Lamont, raising his head, looked at her sadly. 

'‘You have indeed failed to understand me,” he said, 


AN INTE/^VIEIV. 


I31 

“if, for a moment, you imagined that I sought your love in 
return for mine. I should deserve your contempt, and 
that of every right-minded person, were that the case. 
No, Cordelia, I ask nothing of you, except your apprecia- 
tion of the efforts I have made, and shall continue to make. 
Could you think so ill of me as to suppose I would thrust 
aside my vows for love of you, and give myself up to the 
gratification of my desires ? O Cordelia, truly you have 
not grasped the meaning of my words or acts ! I am not 
so utterly lost to all sense of honor. You know that to 
win your love would be happiness — life — every thing to 
me. But I prefer to renounce all these, rather than pur- 
chase them at the price of self-respect. Fortunately, you 
do not love me. Were this not so, I doubt if I should 
have sufficient strength to speak to you in this way. The 
struggle, thank God ! is all on my side ; and you, at least, 
are exempt from pain. Do you understand me now ? Can 
you regard my conduct with more lenity ? Do not answer 
me hastily.” 

Cordelia’s face flushed slightly. 

“ I understand,” she said, in a softer tone. “ And I ask 
your forgiveness if I have been too quick in my judgment. 
I think, however,” she continued presently, “ that you are 
mistaken, and that much which now passes with you for 
reality is but a shadow which time will dissipate. I can- 
not forget that you have been my friend, and this makes 
it hard for me; for otherwise I could speak more calmly to 
you. But I will do as you ask me. I will try to think 
kindly of you, and I will do my best to believe that you 
were actuated by honorable motives.” 

“ You speak generously,” he said, drawing a short, quick 
breath; “but I can see that it costs you an effort to do so. 
There is much more that I should like to say to you. It 
would be a relief to me to tell you the whole history of 
my love, — how it suddenly entered my heart, and cast out 


32 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


every thing except my sense of what was due to myself. 
Sometimes, when I look back upon that long, painful 
struggle, in which duty strove to master inclination, I 
wonder whence the strength for victory was borrowed. 
And by duty, Cordelia, I do not mean the mere perform- 
ance of an action which conscience, or oftener habit, ren- 
ders imperative. I understand it to be something more 
than this : it must be directed toward ends productive of 
good to the doer himself, and, when exercised on behalf 
of another, to him also. In all that I have lately done, I 
have been actuated by duty in its highest sense. I am 
not debased. I am not degraded. On the contrary, I 
am better in all respects ; for I am conscious of having 
advanced a step in the perfection of my own nature, which, 
after all, is the truest religion. But I will not trouble you 
with all this. Presently I shall leave you : but, before I 
go, speak to me a little of yourself ; that is, if you can 
trust me enough to give me a portion of your confidence. 
It is not much, surely, to ask.” 

“ I hardly know what to tell you,” she said gravely. 
^‘You think me harsh and unkind, but I am not so inten- 
tionally. I, too, am honest ; and, should I declare my 
approval of your conduct, I should be untrue to myself 
and to you. Pray, let us dwell no longer upon the matter. 
It is painful to us both, and can do no good. As for me, 
I shall find happiness in carrying out a noble work to a 
noble end. You know of the use to which my aunt and 
myself intend to put our recently acquired fortune ; and 
you know, also, that life to me means something more ’than 
mere existence. I have powers which must be exercised, 
needs that require to be satisfied ; and from this work I 
shall reap ample gratification. I know what you would 
say,” she added, seeing Lament extend his hand impul- 
sively, “ but it is no longer possible for me to be guided 
by your advice.” 


AN INTERVIEW. 


133 


*‘You are right,” he said wearily; “but I should like 
above all things to be of service to you. And, indeed, 
whether you repel me or not, I shall always be your friend, 
Cordelia. The day may come, perhaps, when I can help 
you ; and, if so, you will find no more ready assistant than 
I. It is your happiness that I place before every thing, 
and this is the surest proof of my love that I can offer 
you. I neither hesitate nor doubt. I would joyfully have 
received the gift of your love, had you been able to give 
it, and I to accept it. But, since this is not so, I shall be 
content to do without it. Pray, understand that I do not 
complain of circumstances ; and that, though I shall always 
love you, I shall likewise be silent.” 

He rose as he spoke, and stood for a moment regarding 
her sorrowfully. Presently he came toward the chair upon 
which she sat ; and, as he did so, it seemed to him that 
the room grew suddenly dark. He took one of her hands 
in his, while his eyes eagerly sought her own. Cordelia 
felt apparently the influence of the glance ; for she turned 
her head aside, as if unwilling even to grant him this last 
consolation. A momentary pause ensued. Then she 
heard his firm tread advance to the door, which in a few 
seconds closed softly behind him as he went out into the 
purple twilight. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

CORDELIA CONSIDERS. 

“Virtue is like the East, different according to the situation from which we behold 
it.” 

When Cordelia reflected upon her interview with La- 
ment, something like remorse took possession of her. 
Every thought seemed to lessen his offence, and intensify 
her own coldness and severity. In thinking about the 
matter, she could partly understand his feelings : but the 
pity she felt for him was not of the deepest kind ; for com- 
passion is always relative, and exercised only in proportion 
to our real or fancied experience. Cordelia had suffered, 
but in a manner totally different from Lamont. She could 
form no exact idea of the trial to which he had been sub- 
jected, not having imagination enough for so doing; and, 
consequently, her cold reserve was rather the result of 
inexperience and uncultivated fancy than deliberate in- 
tention. She was not, of course, aware of this. She felt 
that Lamont had been weak, that he had yielded to temp- 
tation easily, and that his strong nature, no matter what 
it might now be, had at one time become commonplace. 

In the energy and resolution of her character, Cordelia 
was undoubtedly superior to many women ; but she was 
not without certain prejudices, which were the direct result 
of her education. Of the world she knew little ; and just 
as Lamont had been, in his early youth, critical, and un- 
134 


CORDELIA CONSIDERS. 


135 


charitable to the faults of others, so was she now, though 
in a less degree. She had thought to perceive in him her 
standard of excellence, and it was a cruel blow to find she 
had been mistaken. So completely, indeed, had she ideal- 
ized him, that the mere exhibition of his human weakness 
was in her eyes almost a crime. She was not yet old 
enough to have acquired that liberality of judgment which 
looks rather to causes than to effects. Her independence 
was of a more restricted kind, dealing principally with her 
individual needs, and seldom becoming general. Never- 
theless, she felt that she had been unnecessarily harsh 
with Lamont. He had been her friend as well as her 
spiritual guide, and it was not easy to forget this. But 
his motives, as he had explained them to her, took no firm 
grasp upon her mind ; and the knowledge of his love for 
her did not affect her otherwise than as a regret. And 
what was his resolve to ask nothing from her, beyond an 
ordinary duty } As for his convictions, they were incom- 
prehensible. What, indeed, could she understand of La- 
mont’s convictions, — she, whose life had been lived slowly; 
while his, crowded with varied emotions, seemed to have 
been lengthened into centuries } 

It was true that she did not love him. Had she done 
so, her quickened perceptions would have made her see 
much to which she now was blind. But gradually a faint 
reflection of her old friendship came back, and imbued her 
heart with gentle warmth. It was not the necessity she 
had formerly felt of revealing to him all that one nature 
ever does reveal to another, but simply the sensation of 
something lacking which he probably might supply. She 
still condemned his conduct. The renunciation of his 
vows had lost nothing of its horror, but she nevertheless 
regretted the tone she had adopted toward him. This did 
not arise from any self-interest. Her loneliness, her femi- 
nine weakness, and, perhaps, an unconscious longing for 


3 ^ 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


sympathy, had no part in her thoughts of Lamont. She 
knew that she was able to stand alone, and endure, un- 
aided if necessary, the rough usage of life. But hers was 
a nature quick to grasp opportunities. The significance 
of each moment had early been forced upon her in spite of 
her limited experience ; and the stern fact, that every action 
brings its legitimate consequence, had been learned by her 
long ago. It was this probable consequence which now 
troubled her. She did not know how her manner toward 
Lamont had finally affected him. She had spoken while 
under the influence of a powerful emotion, and naturally 
had spoken unwisely. Lamont, undoubtedly, had degraded 
himself : but she would judge him as leniently as possible ; 
and in the course of time, perhaps, their intercourse might 
be placed upon something resembling its former footing. 
She half hoped he would come again to see her ; but as a 
few days passed, and he did not appear, she became con- 
vinced that she had deeply wounded him. 

Cordelia’s manner would often lead one to suppose that 
her nature was cruel and unforgiving, but nothing could 
be more mistaken than this. Certainly, at times, as was 
evident from her conversation with Lamont, she was in- 
flexible, and apparently merciless ; but she possessed, as 
well, the rare quality of being able to admit a fault. 

With the full sense of this in her mind, she decided, at 
last, to write to Lamont, and express some slight degree 
of sympathy and comprehension. It was, however, not 
an easy task to compose a suitable letter. She feared to 
say too much or too little. She honestly wished to de- 
clare her conviction of having treated him with injustice; 
but this was difficult, without saying more than she thought 
proper under the circumstances. She composed several 
letters, and tore each one up as it was written, instigated 
by the vague hope that Lamont would come, and thus ren- 
der any communication from her unnecessary. The words 


COJ^DELIA CONSIDERS. 


137 


that can be made colorless and negative when spoken, 
often assume a totally opposite form when committed to 
paper. 

But Lamont did not come. Had he really meant that 
he would not see her again } Was she never to have the 
privilege of asking his forgiveness for her hasty judgment } 
For the first time she realized that she had wilfully de- 
prived herself of a friendship she would make almost any 
sacrifice to regain. The sense of loneliness, which she 
had once before experienced, crept over her again with 
redoubled force. Lament’s character, imperfectly com- 
prehended hitherto, seemed all at once to stand out in 
bold relief, and surrounded with a halo of heroism. The 
knowledge that he had perhaps gone forever from her life 
brought with it a sudden capacity for understanding, and 
her naturally tender heart regarded him now more as an 
object of reverence than one deserving distrust and con- 
tempt. She would have given every thing she possessed 
to see and talk with him once more, not to confess her 
love, for she did not love him, but merely that she might 
stretch toward him the hand of friendship, — the token of 
mutual comprehension between honest natures. 

Cordelia at this period of her life was certainly to be 
pitied. And yet the situation had its advantages, in for- 
cing all her individual resources upon her, and causing her 
to look inward for the highest incentive to right feeling 
and action. Hers was a strange position for one so young, 
and to a weaker character it might have proved fatal. But 
Cordelia possessed every one of those traits which en- 
forced responsibility develops into excellence ; and, before 
many days had elapsed, she became almost resigned to 
what had occurred. She no longer wished for Lament’s 
return, being content to regard him as an influence be- 
longing wholly to the past, and one which, in its way, had 
been perfect. 


138 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


Already her awakened imagination began to travel 
swiftly, and to throw about him an invisible web of ro- 
mance. Her regrets disappeared gradually, partly because 
she felt she had acted throughout according to the dictates 
of conscience ; but she could not avoid, nevertheless, a 
slight sense of disappointment in thinking of the unsatis- 
factory manner in which it had all ended. She had gained 
much in experience of late, and she had also paid the 
price which all experience demands. 

Finally, however, with the firmness which was one of 
her most marked characteristics, she put the whole matter 
from her deliberately, turning her thoughts and faculties 
toward the future, which was bright with promise. She 
certainly would not become discouraged because she had 
committed a mistake, and borne the natural consequences. 
She remembered that Lament had once said her life was 
yet to be lived, and this thought brought her consolation. 
She spent much time in making plans for the work she 
hoped to accomplish ; but, though they afforded her a cer- 
tain satisfaction, she felt the absence of an important ele- 
ment, — one of which, at first, she thought she could hardly 
deprive herself. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


CHRISTIAN GRATITUDE. 

“ In the country of the Troglodytse there is, it is said, a river, the taste of whose 
waters is bitter and salt thrice a day. Then it returns to sweet again, and it is the same 
with it in the night-time also. Whereupon it hath gained the name of the mad river. 
Some men are no less unequal and inconstant in their manners than are those waters m 
their taste. Now courteous, and then rough ; now prodigal, and straightway sordid ; 
one while extremely kind, and erelong vehemently hating what they passionately loved 
before.” 

Lamont’s conversation with Cordelia had greatly relieved 
his mind, and yet it had left him unsatisfied. The tone 
she had adopted toward him was not that which he had 
expected ; and he found, that, while his general estimate 
of her character had not been a mistaken one, it had, nev- 
theless, been incomplete. He could understand in part 
her horror of his apostasy ; and, when he considered it 
calmly, her reluctance to listen to the declaration of his 
love was, after all, but natural. At the same time, he felt 
she had served in a measure to increase his weight of care, 
instead of making it less. Her friendly sympathy seemed 
to have lost its genuineness ; and it was evident that the 
few kind words she had addressed to him had been difficult 
of utterance, and lacking in true sentiment. This was a 
disappointment which made his individual sorrow harder 
to bear, but his clear conscience did much toward bringing 
him to a tranquil state of mind. 

Lamont’s nature was of the kind which, though con- 


139 


140 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE, 


stantly striving toward happiness, is destined seldom to 
enjoy it, in consequence of the self-development which 
always aims, and never grasps. While waiting for a hope 
to become realized, his character, still unfolding, and dis- 
playing new interests, would, in time, cause his most ardent 
expectations to seem commonplace ; and he would straight- 
way allow his ambition to lead him to yet higher regions 
with an identical result. And, indeed, what can be more 
disappointing than to discover, on reaching a long-sought- 
for goal, that one has outgrown it in the journey.^ 

When he left the convent, and walked mechanically 
along the path where, but a short time before, he had 
stood irresolute, endeavoring to summon all his energy for 
the coming interview with Cordelia, he wondered vaguely 
whether she would ever view his conduct in a different 
and better light. He knew that her thoughts and feelings 
were not, at present, absolutely under her control ; but 
her conduct, nevertheless, had somewhat shaken his faith 
in her. He could not avoid dwelling persistently upon her 
unsympathetic words, and thinking how differently she 
might have spoken. But he soon cast this aside as selfish, 
and unworthy of his love. 

Lament drew a wide distinction between the non-sup- 
pression of self in regard to duties imposed by conscience 
for the production of certain good results, and the mere 
individual interest which a love less perfect than his is apt 
to seek. What he desired was the highest moral excel- 
lence for himself, which by proper cultivation could not 
fail likewise to benefit others with whom he came in con- 
tact, or who were by chance exposed to his influence. 
Infinitely did he regret the loss of that mutual aid which 
he and Cordelia had formerly given to each other, for his 
friendship was no less sincere than his love. The latter, 
he felt, imposed certain obligations upon him, no weaker 
in their way than those which had drawn him from the 


CHR/ST/AN GRAT/TC/£>E. 


I4I 

Church ; and hoping to gain much from them, in spite 
of the absence of reciprocation on Cordelia’s part, he 
resolved to let this love be, as it were, the mainspring of 
his life. 

Several days later, an irresistible impulse carried him to 
the cathedral. Why he went there, he scarcely knew ; but, 
as he entered the building, the impressive service, which 
was being celebrated, touched him profoundly. He stood 
near the doorway unobserved, and let his eyes wander, with 
a sense of combined relief and sadness, toward the altar. 
The church was filled with Mexicans, whose swarthy faces 
looked more sombre still in the dusky light. As Lament 
glanced at them, he felt a vague regret that he was no 
longer to be the means of improving their ignorant con- 
dition by teaching them the higher requirements of their 
faith. They were now to be confided to other hands, — 
hands which, it is true, placed a greater value upon sym- 
bols than upon the things they represented, but which at 
the same time could not fail to raise those wretched souls 
from their degradation. An opportunity had here been 
lost, and he doubted for the moment whether any other 
could replace it. 

" Presently his gaze rested upon the Bishop, who was 
reciting the mass in a sing-song tone, with folded hands 
and half-closed eyes. One would hardly have recognized 
his face as being the same which Lament had seen a few 
days before. He watched him now, with a sort of fascina- 
tion, his figure clearly defined against the background of 
lighted candles and artificial flowers, the large ruby upon 
his finger emitting sparks of lurid crimson, and the gold 
cloth of his robe glistening as he swayed backward and 
forward with every utterance. Once in a while his eyes 
would open languidly, and sweep the congregation with a 
quick, furtive glance ; but, when the lids drooped again, 
nothing could be more peaceful than his expression. La- 


142 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


mont involuntarily recalled his words, “What if I should 
publicly announce your degradation ? ” but he had little 
fear that the Bishop would really do this. Even had he 
done so, it would not have served to intimidate him. 
Having undergone so much, it mattered little whether or 
not an additional trial were added to his burden. But he 
wondered dimly what the effect of his disgrace would be 
upon the people. Toleration from them was scarcely to 
be expected. Incapable of gratitude, governed by violent 
passions, and endowed with intelligence but little above 
that of brutes, it was not difficult to foretell their feelings 
when they should become aware of what had happened. 
Perhaps already the knowledge of his shame had trans- 
pired. Again he looked at the congregation, and then at 
the Bishop, who was still reciting the prayers in a dull, 
monotonous voice. Lament was too far back in the church 
for the Bishop to see him ; but he felt instinctively as if 
the prelate’s penetrating glance had discovered him, even 
among the shadows where he lingered. In a few moments 
the people fell upon their knees to receive the benediction, 
and mechanically he followed their example. The impres- 
siveness of the scene, with its semi-barbaric picturesque- 
ness, was not lost upon his vivid fancy, — the Bishop’s 
firm, deliberate voice, his peaceful, resigned manner, the 
quaint surroundings of form, color, and light, the faces 
of the people, almost identical in expression and general 
outline, and, last of all, Lamont himself, kneeling in the 
obscurity, his gaze fixed upon the altar where he would 
never again officiate, and upon the ecclesiastical robes 
which he had worn for the last time. How strange a 
scene, indeed, was this ! From the tiny windows high up 
in the wall, near the roof, came miniature flecks of sun- 
shine, which fell here and there like golden spangles. 
Some touched the garments of the kneeling figures, and 
made little patches of bright color ; a few danced on the 


CHRISTIAN GRATITUDE. 


143 


altar, above which the incongruously dressed dolls sat, and 
seemed to survey the scene intelligently ; others chased 
each other up and down the Bishop’s robe, one resting, 
perchance, now and then, upon the fiery ruby, which shone 
in the gloom like the eye of an evil beast. 

Lament, upon his knees, his hands folded across his 
breast, heard not the prayers, nor was he conscious that 
the Bishop had finally ceased speaking, until the latter, 
having concluded the service, walked solemnly into the 
sacristy, and the people rose to their feet. Even then he 
remained kneeling, and absorbed in his own reflections, 
from which he was presently roused by the subdued clamor 
of voices. The congregation, on turning to leave the 
church, had recognized the face of their former priest and 
friend, and, like most people, were only too willing to help 
him in his descent of the ladder of life. 

Lament left the building in a few moments, and walked 
slowly through the plaza^ his head bowed upon his chest, 
his hands now crossed behind him, his whole attitude be- 
speaking profound thought not unmixed with sadness. 
He did not hear the muttered curses of the people, or 
notice the scowling glances which they cast upon him as 
they hurried by, gathering the folds of their se7'apes and 
rebosas closely about them, as if in fear of being contami- 
nated by touching the apostate. At the angle of the plaza^ 
toward which Lamont directed his steps, was a high, white- 
washed adobe wall ; and in front of it, seated on the ground, 
were a dozen or more Mexicans, men and women, basking 
in the warm sunlight. Had he chosen to look at this 
motley group, he would have seen that several of the per- 
sons therein were those whom he had especially befriended 
in various ways, and who had hitherto professed the great- 
est love and veneration for him. There, for instance, was 
old Juan Trujillo, whose whole family, lately stricken by 
small-pox, had been nursed by the priest, and supplied with 


144 


A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE. 


the necessaries and comforts which had brought them 
through their dangerous illness. And, again, there was 
Jesusa Chavez, a tall, well-made girl, to whom Lamont had 
given a marriage portion from his own scanty income, in 
order that she might set up a shop with her husband. 
Francisco Garcia, too, who had stabbed a man in a quarrel, 
and whose acquittal had been obtained by Lamont on the 
ground of self-defence, formed likewise one of the party, 
and looked at his former pastor with a black and angry 
frown. He sat a little apart from the others, surrounded 
by a throng of muchachos and imichachas (boys and girls), 
whom the priest had not only striven to instruct in the 
rudiments of Christianity, but also to imbue their minds 
with a just appreciation of the morality which accompanies 
proper self-respect. All the services rendered by him to 
the people had been, as is generally the case, forgotten as 
soon as enjoyed. The recollection of a benefit received 
was not a familiar sensation with them ; but, even had 
it been otherwise, the insult offered by Lamont to the 
Church would have caused his most noble acts to sink 
into insignificance. 

Francisco rose suddenly to his feet, and pointed his 
finger at Lamont, the act causing all eyes to be directed 
toward the latter. “There he is!” he cried. “Look, 
here comes the apostate ! ” 

His exclamation seemed to rouse within the people 
the slumbering sense of the wrong done to them and 
the Church. 

“Ay!” screamed an old woman named Antonia Vaca, 
whose face was whitened with plaster, and whose black 
eyes sparkled with fury, “he struck his Holy Reverence, 
the Bishop, yesterday, and kicked, besides, the image of 
the Blessed Virgin. Maria Arimjo, who takes care of his 
rooms, told me so herself. No wonder my goats would 
give no milk this morning. We shall all be ruined if this 


CHRISTIAN- GRATITCTDE. 




145 


traidoTy this apostatdy be allowed to remain in Santa Fe. 
He is worse than the cursed Americans.” 

^^Carajol” said a cadaverous-looking man, who, as he 
spoke, began to roll a cigarette between his dirty fingers. 
“ The Senora Antonia is right. A black dog rushed into 
my house to-day, and ate all the tortillas just as I was 
sitting down to breakfast. Such things do not happen for 
nothing. We shall be malditos if we suffer this fellow to 
stay another night in Santa Fe. Vamos Amigos he con- 
tinued, as he rose from the ground, “let us drive him out 
now. Jesus, Maria, Jose ! ” he called in a loud tone, “pray 
for us, your defenders. Is not this San Diego’s day } ” he 
added, half to himself. “ En biien dia^ buenas obrasE (“ The 
better the day, the better the work.”) He turned away 
with a harsh laugh, and, chipping a piece of plaster from 
the wall, threw it with all his strength at Lament, who 
was about ten feet distant. 

The latter, who had raised his head on hearing the shrill 
voices about him, was in a measure prepared for the attack, 
and stepped hastily aside, so that the piece of adobe went 
whirling by, and fell to the ground several yards behind 
him. 

“ Friends,” he said, in a loud, clear tone, his frank glance 
meeting their fierce, angry looks, “why do you use this 
violence toward me ? Have I done aught to you to deserve 
it.?” 

His calm, grave voice seemed only to enrage them the 
more ; and he saw at once how powerless he was to fight 
against them. In a frenzy of excitement, and uttering the 
while harsh, inarticulate cries, they seized, one and all, 
upon every thing nearly that could possibly serve as a mis- 
sile to hurl at Lamont. 

“Jesus — Maria ! ” cried one, fairly trembling with rage, 
“ We care not what he says, and we will listen to none of 
his words. But he shall see whether or not he can insult 


146 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


the saints as he pleases. There is a devil behind every 
cross, but this one shall not remain behind ours.” 

“ Kill him ! kill the apostate ! ” shrieked old Antonia, 
jumping off both feet at once. '' My goats will give no 
milk, and I am a ruined woman. It is not at my age that 
one submits to be cursed.” 

Look you at his eyes ! ” exclaimed another woman, who 
had a naked child clinging to her skirts. “ They are filled 
with imps. I can see them dance. Out with them ! ” she 
cried, picking-up a piece of adobe from the ground. “ Run, 
Juanita, and fetch me some more,” she added, thrusting 
the child from her : “ we are malditos, jnalditos ! ” 

Already several stones and pieces of plaster had struck 
Lament. Twice he had tried to speak again, half hoping 
that the sound of his voice, and the words he would address 
to the people, might calm their wild excitement. But his 
utterance was drowned by their shouts, and his efforts to 
command attention unnoticed. 

“ Out with the apostate ! ” cried Francisco Garcia. 
‘*We want no devils in Santa Fe ! ” He ran toward 
Lamont as he spoke, followed by the others, who still con- 
tinued to throw at him every thing upon which they could 
lay their hands. Lamont, his pale face more sorrowful 
than angry, his clothes soiled with plaster, in vain sought 
escape from his tormentors. He began to feel weak from 
the effects of the blows he had received, and from the loss 
of blood which flowed from his forehead, where a sharp 
piece of adohe^ thrown by old Antonia, had struck him. 
But still they pursued him without mercy, filling the air 
with curses, and shrill cries of rage, as he rushed hastily 
across the plaza seeking protection. 

The bright noonday sunlight streamed into his eyes, and 
almost blinded him, for his hat had been lost in the affray; 
but he went bravely on, hoping to reach his own dwelling 
before any serious injury was done him. A dull red color 


CHRISTIAN GRATITUDE. 


147 


had risen to the faces of most of the Mexicans, imbuing 
them with a fiery animation ; and their movements were 
not devoid of the grace which results from the utter aban- 
donment and forgetfulness of self. It was the unconscious 
ease of the savage bent on securing his prey. As they 
advanced, many, finding their serapes and rebosas inconven- 
ient, cast them recklessly aside ; so that they lay upon the 
ground, forming at various intervals brilliant patches of 
color on the rough earth. 

At the entrance of the plaza^ Lament, rushing blindly 
forward, failed to see the forms of two women who were 
coming from the opposite direction. A Mexican behind 
him gave him a sudden vigorous push, which almost 
threw him upon his face. Then raising his head, and 
looking from side to side as though in search of a path of 
escape. Lament became conscious of the presence of Cor- 
delia, who was standing before him, with the Superior by 
her side. 

The people, recognizing them both, suddenly stopped; 
and in an instant the wild tumult of voices was hushed. 
Some looked half ashamed, and all seemed impressed with 
a slight sense of the outrage perpetrated upon their former 
priest. Many hardly dared to meet the full, inquiring 
glance of Cordelia’s eyes ; and for a few seconds no one 
spoke. 

Lamont, panting with fatigue and pain, stood bare- 
headed in the sunlight, and looked at Cordelia unflinch- 
ingly; while a feeling almost of satisfaction came over 
him. The Superior, her lips curled in a meaning smile, 
measured first the Mexicans and then Lamont with a calm, 
deliberate glance. Then she shrugged her shoulders, and 
turned her eyes away to another point. Cordelia was the 
first to break the painful silence. *‘Tell me,” she said, 
advancing toward Lamont, ‘^what all this means. What 
are these people doing here, and why are you in such a 


148 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE, 


condition ? ” Evidently she knew what the answer would 
be ; for her face had grown very pale, and her eyes were 
filled with tears. The Superior bent forward, and laid her 
arm across the girl’s shoulder. 

“It is not proper for you to remain here,” she said. 
“What would you do among these people Let us go.” 

“ Can they have used violence toward you .? ” Cordelia 
continued, not noticing the Superior’s words. “Tell us 
quickly, I implore you.” She stretched her hand toward 
Lamont with a gesture of ready sympathy. 

“ It is nothing of importance,” said Lamont, trying to 
speak calmly. “And do not trouble yourself. Miss Heri- 
court ; for it matters little what becomes of me. As well 
be stoned to death now, as to be an outcast forever from 
all that makes life worth having. Forgive me,” he added 
hastily. “ I am not unmindful of your kindness ; but if 
you only knew how little I value existence” — He hesi- 
tated, and then continued more slowly, “ I think, if they 
would have consented to listen to me, I might have escaped 
this degradation. But they would not. I have no longer 
any influence over them.” 

“Cowards!” cried Cordelia, with flashing eyes, “do 
you see what you have done.^* Is this your gratitude.? 
Who has been to you so good a friend as he .? Oh I ” she 
added vehemently, “ I wish I were a man. And were my 
father still alive” — Tears choked her utterance; and 
she turned aside, to lean her head against the Superior’s 
shoulder. 

“Come away,” whispered the latter. “Indeed, you 
must not stay here, Cordelia. You will regret having 
delayed so long. Pray come.” 

''Carajo!” said Francisco Garcia, twisting his fingers 
nervously together. “We cannot be cursed with im- 
punity. You do not know, Senorita, all the ill that has 
befallen us since Padre Lamont turned apostatd. But I 


CHRISTIAN GRATITUDE, 


149 


can see the good mother yonder knows of it, and does 
not blame us. Tell about your goats, Antonia; and you, 
Jose, relate the story of the black dog and the tortillas. 
You will say, Senorita, that we are right.” 

“Be off!” cried Cordelia imperiously. “I will hear 
none of your absurd superstitions. How dared you attack 
him } O mother 1 ” she added, with a fresh burst of tears, 
“ speak to them. They will heed your words better than 
mine.” 

“ I have said that we have no place here,” replied the 
Superior in a low tone, and looking coldly at Lamont. 
“Why do you not come away as I have asked you V 

“No, no I not yet. I will not go, mother,” replied Cor- 
delia, trembling. She was both horrified and amazed at 
the indignity offered to Lamont ; and her sensations were 
doubtless intensified, both by the part she had played in 
their last interview, and her subsequent reflections. It 
almost seemed as if she were personally responsible for 
what had just occurred ; and the tears she shed were 
rather of remorse than of compassion, though her sorrow 
was sincere. 

Lamont, apparently, was hardly conscious of what passed 
in her mind. There was a certain dignity in his manner, 
which lent additional pathos to the situation ; and, although 
he was painfully aware of every detail that had happened, 
he was in no wise ashamed to be seen by Cordelia in his 
present position. 

There was silence between them all for some moments. 
The Superior, seeing that Cordelia was bent upon remain- 
ing, had drawn herself up to her full height, and now 
stood with a malicious smile playing about her lips, her 
whole demeanor bespeaking a cruel enjoyment of the 
former priest’s injuries. Lament’s glance, in the mean 
while, wandered down the narrow street which bordered 
the plaza^ the low houses on each side allowing a broad 


150 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


expanse of deep-blue sky to be seen. Occasionally a 
Mexican wearing a wide-brimmed sombrero, or a woman 
with a rebosa closely covering her head, would pass by 
with a lazy, listless gait, and look curiously, through half- 
closed eyes, at the strange group assembled. One or two 
new-comers joined the Mexicans already there, and in- 
quired in loud whispers what had happened ; but, generally 
speaking, it was too great an exertion, even to do this. 

“ I think,” said Lamont, breaking the stillness finally, 
with apparent effort, “ that I need fear no further violence 
from these people. Your timely arrival, Miss Hericourt, 
has probably saved my life ; and I am grateful to you for 
your generous intercedence. See,” he added, turning to 
the Mexicans, “ the trouble and fear you have brought 
upon these ladies ; and tell me, besides, what I have ever 
done to you to merit such treatment at your hands } It is 
true, that I have left the Church ; but my reasons for so 
doing would not be understood by you. Yet, even if I 
have changed toward the Church, to you I have not 
changed. I have not cared for you, taught you, and sym- 
pathized with you, for so many months, to wish you any ill 
now. Have I ever been other than a friend to you } An- 
swer me, Garcia, and you too, Jose.” 

“ You struck His Reverence,” cried old Antonia, upon 
whom Lamont’s words made little impression. ‘‘You 
kicked the image of the Blessed Virgin.” 

“ Ay ! ” exclaimed another. ‘‘ We were forced into it. 
We cannot submit to be ruined.” 

“ My teaching has indeed brought forth imperfect 
fruit,” said Lamont. ‘‘I see now how little I have really 
done. It is as well, therefore, that I leave you all.” He 
turned as if to walk away, but Cordelia detained him. 

“Wait a moment,” she began, in a low, quick tone. “I 
have been unkind and harsh to you, but I will be so no 
longer. We used to be friends ; let us be friends again.” 


CHRISTIAN GRATITUDE. 


I5I 

She held out her hand, and Lament clasped it in his. 
Something like a mist came over his eyes. 

I thank you,” he said, “ but I have troubled you too 
long already with my presence. It will be better for me 
to go as quietly as possible to my own house. See, some 
of my persecutors have gone away ; and the others, I am 
sure, will do me no further injury.” He turned aside, 
advanced a few steps, and paused. ‘‘Do not think me 
ungrateful,” he said gently. “ I appreciate your kind words 
more than I can say.” 

Cordelia was silent, overcome by a strong emotion. The 
Superior watched him as he walked away with difficulty, 
and her malicious smile changed to a heavy frown. 

“Come, now,” she said, “you have no reason to stay 
any longer.” 

The Mexicans stood for a few moments gazing also at 
the retreating figure of their former priest. Then they 
dispersed quietly, picking up, as they went, the rebosas 
and serapes which lay scattered on plaza. 

Lamont continued his way slowly ; the sunlight falling 
in golden warmth upon his torn clothes, and displaying 
the pallor of his blood-stained face. He made a strange, 
unnatural figure, this disgraced priest upon whom the peo- 
ple had just wreaked their vengeance. The brilliant day 
seemed likewise to mock at his misery. There was no 
friendly shadow, such as had come to his aid in the cathe- 
dral, — no sudden obscuring of the summer sky. The 
yellow sunbeams danced upon his hair, his ragged gar- 
ments, and his face, as though enjoying his suffering. 

Cordelia, her eyes still filled with tears, stood by the 
Superior’s side, and watched him until he reached his own 
house, and entered the narrow doorway. 

Then the two women turned also away from the now 
deserted and, arm in arm, walked back to the convent. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE SUPERIOR. 

“ Un acte de vertu, un sacrifice ou de ses interets ou de soi-meme, est le besoin 
d’une ame noble.’' — Chamfort. 

When Cordelia reached Our Lady of Gaudaloupe, she 
shut herself in her room, overcome by nervous excitement 
and distress. The scene she had just witnessed, intense 
in its reality, had affected her in more ways than one. 
Apart from her physical sensations were others of a differ- 
ent character. Her pity for Lamont was redoubled ten- 
fold, and it was not devoid of tenderness. The few words 
she had spoken to the Mexicans had been uttered with the 
sense of responsibility which her freshly awakened friend- 
ship called forth. Her own harshness sank into nothing- 
ness beside the cruelty of the people, and the sight of 
Lamont’s suffering had thoroughly unnerved her. It is 
true that her apology to him had cost her a slight effort ; 
but it was one worth the making, she thought, upon reflec- 
tion. 

As soon as she was somewhat composed, she sat down, 
and wrote a long and sympathetic letter to Lamont, con- 
fessing frankly all the thoughts which had occurred to her 
since their last interview, and revealing the changed state 
of her feelings toward him. It was, however, a purely 
friendly letter, exhibiting a great deal of the unselfishness 
which should have been forthcoming earlier. It relieved 

152 


THE SUPERIOR. 


153 


her to write it ; and, on looking at the closely worded 
sheets, she wondered whether Lament, on receiving them, 
would experience half the satisfaction she felt at that 
moment. 

A gentle knock at the door interrupted her occupation, 
and the Superior entered. Cordelia rose quickly, and 
placed a chair for her beside the table. The Superior 
sank down upon the seat, with a long-drawn sigh. 

“You were writing, my child. Do I disturb you V she 
asked softly. 

“ No, mother. I was writing a few moments ago, but 
I have finished. Besides, the matter is not very press- 
ing.” 

The Superior glanced at the sheets of paper, and then 
at Cordelia. The light striking her face revealed a rather 
careworn expression, and deep lines on the forehead and 
about the mouth. 

“Were you — were you writing to JiiniV' she inquired 
presently, with hesitation. 

“Yes, mother,” Cordelia answered readily. “If you 
only knew how I pity him, — how I long to be of service 
to him. He has been our friend, my friend, for so long.” 
She abruptly ceased speaking, and toyed nervously with 
the pen she held between her fingers. 

The Superior raised both hands, as though to shut some 
horrible vision from her sight. “ Do not call him friend ! ” 
she exclaimed. “ He can have no claim to that title, if 
you are what you profess to be. I am disappointed in you, 
Cordelia. You have acted improperly from beginning to 
end. You have disregarded my advice repeatedly, and 
you will never be able to reconcile your behavior with 
your conscience. You are scarcely like the Cordelia 
Hericourt I have known and loved.” 

“ I am sorry to have been forced to disobey you, mother ; 
but I have done no wrong,” said Cordelia in a low tone, 


154 


A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE. 


‘'except, indeed, to treat him with injustice when I should 
have given him sympathy.” 

"Sympathy!” cried the Superior. "For what does he 
deserve it ? But I see how it is,” she added : " the inter- 
view which you insisted upon having has done its work, 
as I knew it would. Are you willing to sacrifice your 
principles for the sake of this man, — for the sake of a 
romantic and silly attachment 

" It is neither romantic nor silly,” said Cordelia firmly. 
"I feel that I have been unjust to Lamont, and my desire 
is to make amends. In the beginning, I had only con- 
demnation for his conduct ; but I see now, that many 
things are to be considered apart from the action itself.” 

" Do you think, that, with your limited knowledge and 
experience, you are competent to judge the matter at 
all ? ” inquired the Superior, almost shrilly. 

"I have reason, at all events,” said Cordelia; "and 
Padre Lamont was a true friend to me. My ideas, no 
doubt, differ from yours ; but I am sure I am taking the 
proper course.” 

"Come,” said the Superior more gently, "let us talk 
calmly about it. I am much older than you, and I have 
studied human nature as well as other things. You think 
Padre Lamont a paragon of excellence, simply because he 
has known how to play upon your sensibilities to his own 
advantage. Had you not listened to him, — had you re- 
ceived his explanations and advances properly, — you 
would have escaped this shame ; for I can call it nothing 
else. Can a priest assume vows, only to cast them aside 
when it pleases him to do so.^*” She rose as she spoke, 
and began to pace the floor impatiently. 

"No,” said Cordelia, "but surely circumstances alter 
cases. I do not deny that what Lamont has done is a 
great shock to me, but I now think his motives were 
honestly conceived. The Church will mourn his loss ; but 


THE SUPERIOR. 


155 


an unprejudiced mind, and one who understands his char- 
acter, must see that he has done well to leave a sphere of 
life to which he was unsuited. His place, I fear, has not 
been among us for some time. But, whether in the Church 
or not, he will put forth his best efforts in all he may un- 
dertake.” She spoke warmly, and a faint color came into 
her cheeks. 

“ I do not understand you,” said the Superior, with dig- 
nified coldness. “ In your position you should be as much 
horrified as I, — perhaps more so.” 

“ Tell me, mother,” said Cordelia, almost vehemently, 
‘‘why, when you adopt that black gown, must you cast 
aside every independent thought ? You will find nowhere,” 
she added quickly, “a more consistent and devout wor- 
shipper than I, but religion cannot bind my reason. It 
is my life now, my happiness, my hope; but I am no 
bigot.” 

“You speak falsely when you say it is all this!” ex- 
claimed the Superior passionately. “It should be first 
with you always, but you have made it second. Your ac- 
tual religion is your feeling for this wretched apostate. 
You are not a good Catholic. I can scarcely believe you 
to be really Cordelia Hericourt.” 

“Well, have it so, if you will,” said Cordelia, speaking 
for the first time in anger. “ You are bent upon misunder- 
standing me, so it is useless to say more. Oh!” she 
added sadly, “how hard it is sometimes to know how to 
act ! ” Tears rose to her eyes, but she brushed them im- 
patiently away. “Forgive me,” she said, seeing the 
Superior preserve a stony silence. “I did not mean to 
offend you, mother. But I pity Lament, the more inas- 
much as I think he will never know perfect happiness. A 
commonplace nature only can accept whatever comes and 
enjoy it. The uninquiring mind, living within a narrow 
circumference, and taking all in good faith and without 


156 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


questions, is happy in its ignorance and restriction, and 
gets real pleasure out of existence. But is Lament of this 
kind Has he not desires, and, above all, principles, which 
give him no peace ” 

“ So have I ; so have we all,” said the Superior, seating 
herself again by the table, and looking keenly at Cordelia. 
“ But principles, to be really such, cannot change. They 
are as firm as rocks, and as deeply rooted as trees.” 

‘‘True,” said Cordelia, “but only when a nature has 
completed its growth. . It is like a soil which brings forth 
nothing but weeds until a proper amount of cultivation 
causes a finer vegetation to spring up.” 

“ But is not the change, even then, a gradual one } ” 
asked the Superior, with some trace of her former excite- 
ment. “ So wonderful a metamorphosis as to sentiments 
and ideas can hardly occur in a man’s character all at 
once. A month ago Lamont seemed wrapped up in his 
faith, and the work to which he had been appointed. No 
one, apparently, was more sincere than he.” 

“I think that, like many others, he was reluctant to 
acknowledge his steady pursuance of a false track,” said 
Cordelia. “ He tried to hide the truth from himself, 
probably, until it refused longer to be concealed. Then he 
acted as his honesty prompted.” 

The Superior made no reply. It was far from her inten- 
tion to quarrel with Cordelia, for reasons which will be re- 
vealed later; but she felt, nevertheless, that great personal 
sacrifices should be made in order to keep the girl’s faith 
and principles intact. 

“After all,” said Cordelia presently, “there is no reason 
to be worried about me, mother. I do not think Lamont 
will remain much longer in Santa Fe, and probably I shall 
never see him again. But throughout my life I shall carry 
with me the recollection of him as he stood this morning 
in the plaza^ surrounded by those dreadful Mexicans, his 


THE SUPERIOR, 


157 


clothes torn, his face pale, and stained with blood. Did 
not the spectacle move you ? ” 

*‘The people did what they thought right,” answered 
the Superior stiffly. “It was a just punishment.” 

“ It was cruel, — barbarous,” cried Cordelia tremulously. 
“ Oh ! why are you so hard, — so unjust, — so wanting in 
womanly feeling ? ” 

“ I respect the Church and myself,” said the Superior, 
unmoved; “and your tone is lacking in respect, Cordelia. 
But, as you say, there is no occasion for this argument. 
Lamont is going away, and you will never see him again. 
You have much for which to be thankful. Once removed 
from his influence, your heart will regain its proper senti- 
ments, and you will see the matter in a different light. 
I shall leave you in a few moments, to reflect upon what I. 
have said. Take my advice, however, and do not send 
that letter. It can do no good. You think me harsh and 
unkind, but some day you will be grateful for my words 
and the efforts I have made in your behalf. This man is 
not worth the interest you lavish upon him ; and soon you 
will forget, as I have done, that you ever called him friend. 
You have much also that is noble and elevated to occupy 
your mind. Think of the work you contemplate, and let 
all worldly and selfish feelings die out. Vulgar friendships, 
and the companionship of perverted minds, are not for you, 
Cordelia ; and I will do all in my power to shield you from 
them. Your thoughts should be far removed from these 
things.” 

Cordelia shook her head. 

“ I must send the letter,” she said firmly. “ I cannot 
let him go without a word of sympathy. The matter, 
however, shall end there, I promise you.” 

“ You are a wilful girl ; but you must have your own 
way, I suppose,” said the Superior, half fearing she had 
gone too far. “ We all love you here, and will do what we 


158 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


can for your happiness and welfare. Perhaps I have been 
a little hasty, both to you and this misguided priest ; but 
you understand, I hope, that I have your well-being at 
heart.” 

“Thank you, mother,” said Cordelia. “ I am sorry to do 
any thing of which you disapprove; but my duty, I think, 
is clearly marked out for me.” 

“At least, you will not attempt to see him again,” said 
the Superior anxiously. “ Let me dictate a letter for you 
instead of the one you intend to send.” She thrust her 
hand into her pocket, and drew forth a handkerchief, three 
keys, a spool of thread, a candle-end, and finally a blunted 
lead-pencil. “I know what is best to say,” she added, 
drawing toward her a sheet of paper, and beginning to 
write a few words. 

“ No, mother,” Cordelia interrupted, placing her hand 
gently but firmly upon the Superior’s. “ Let me say what 
pleases me. My letter is written. I will send that and 
no other.” 

The Superior reluctantly restored the pencil and other 
articles to her pocket. “Very well,” she said, in a disap- 
pointed tone. “You have a strong will, Cordelia; and I 
pray that it may never bring you into trouble.” 

She rose as she finished speaking, straightening her tall 
figure with a dignified movement. “You are a foolish 
girl, and some day you will discover it. Send your letter, 
by all means, but be prepared for the consequences.” 

She left the room, gathering about her the long folds of 
her black gown ; her large flat feet, incased in cloth slip- 
pers, treading the floor heavily. 

Cordelia placed her letter hurriedly in an envelope, and 
wrote the address in rather trembling characters, while 
she sent for a Mexican who was in the habit of doing 
errands for the convent. She would have liked to tell the 
messenger to wait for an answer ; but thinking that this 


THE SUPERIOR. 


159 


perhaps, occasion a hasty and unreflecting response, 
she gave orders that the letter was merely to be left at 
Lament’s lodgings. 

Her friendship naturally had only been intensified by 
the opposition she had met with from the Superior, but 
mingled with the feeling was a certain amount of humilia- 
tion. She knew that hitherto she had imperfectly under- 
stood the term friendship, for she experienced now the 
unquestioning devotion of entire confidence. It was not 
a blind faith based upon ignorance, but that which comes 
from knowledge acquired by means of trial and investiga- 
tion, and which is based upon pure reason. She was too 
young yet to go very deeply into the study of character ; 
and she had consequently accepted Lament just as he had 
appeared to her, without attempting to analyze the under- 
current of his nature. She rarely discovered any thing 
by the intuition which often passes for practice and 
observation ; but, in thinking of Lament, her intelligence 
unconsciously came uppermost. Much was still wanting 
to complete her friendship. The necessary equality be- 
tween herself and him was not perfect; and, without this, 
no absolute friendship could exist. Few natures at any 
time comprehend this, and Cordelia certainly did not. 
She knew instinctively that Lament was her superior, 
and she felt a lack of ease when speaking or writing to 
him ; but she was his friend according to her best concep- 
tion of the word. 

She sat lost in thought where the Superior had left her : 
her arms rested upon the table, and her face was bowed 
upon them. What would be the answer to her letter, 
she wondered. She hardly expected to see Lament again, 
and yet to do so would give her unalloyed pleasure. Again 
her thoughts reverted to the scene in the plaza ; and old 
Antonia’s shrill tones came back to her, with the scowl- 
ing glances of the people. She recalled, too, Lament’s 


l6o A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 

figure standing boldly out from the rest in the noonday 
sunlight ; and here her reflections lingered. So she 
remained motionless for over an hour, when she was 
roused from her revery by the entrance of the Superior, 
who held a letter in her hand. 

“ Here is the answer, Cordelia,” she said briefly. 

The girl took it, and broke the seal silently, the Supe- 
rior watching her with an affected indifference hardly in 
keeping with the keen sparkle of her small black eyes. 
The note contained only a few hastily written lines. 

thank you,” it read, “for your kindness and sympa- 
thy, which are of great value to me. You know with how 
much pleasure I would see you again, but I wish to avoid 
every suspicion which would lead to the belief that I had 
left the Church solely on your account. You understand 
this, I am sure. I shall remain but a day or two longer 
in Santa Fe, and it may be that we shall never meet again. 
It encourages me to think that I carry away with me your 
best wishes for my happiness, and the earnest assurance 
of your friendship.” 

Then followed an additional sentence or two, referring 
to her own interests, and expressing the hope that she 
would find therein the satisfaction she desired. 

It was not altogether a cold letter, and yet it was a bitter 
disappointment to her. Perhaps Lament, fearing to say 
too much, had failed to give the full significance of his 
thoughts. At any rate, it seemed to Cordelia that a cruel 
blow had been dealt her. The sheet dropped from her 
hands upon the table, and she sat staring at it blankly. 
She knew the Superior was regarding her with mingled 
impatience and curiosity, but she was unable to speak. 
She realized now that Lamont had gone forever from her 
life, and that henceforth he was to be a memory, and noth- 
ing more. Hot tears rose to her eyes ; but she brushed 
them away, unwilling to let the Superior witness them. 


THE SUPERIOR. 


l6l 


Presently the older woman bent forward, and laid her 
hand on Cordelia’s shoulder. 

“Well, my child she asked, in a tone of subdued 
excitement, which the girl failed to notice. 

“It is nothing, mother, — nothing,” she answered ab- 
stractedly. “ I shall not see him again. He leaves Santa 
Fe immediately. You have no cause for alarm.” 

The Superior’s face brightened perceptibly, and she 
drew a long breath of relief. 

“ Heaven be praised ! ” she exclaimed fervently. “Ah ! 
my child, you see God wills all things for the best. The 
influence of this man would, in a short time, be fatal to 
you ; but now the danger is passed. A little later you 
would have been powerless to escape it.” She laid her 
arm caressingly about the girl’s shoulders. “You bear 
me no ill will, I hope,” she continued. “ I did my duty 
toward you and him. I could not sit calmly by, and see 
you plunge unknowingly into destruction. We will think 
no more of this man, — this degraded priest. He is not 
worth the attention of an honest Catholic.” 

Cordelia was quite willing that the Superior should take 
all the credit to herself. She only raised her head wearily, 
and said, “ We do not quite agree about it yet, mother ; 
but it is not worth while to speak of it any longer. As 
for what you did and said, you acted, I suppose, as your 
conscience dictated ; and therefore I cannot blame you.” 
She was evidently anxious to dismiss the subject. The 
Superior hesitated for a moment, and then turned to leave 
the room. 

“I shall send Sister Josefa to you,” she said, standing 
in the doorway. “You have no light, and it is growing 
dark. Besides, her conversation will cheer you.” 

“ I do not care to see Sister Josefa,” replied Cordelia, 
and I prefer to be in the dark.” But her words were 
spoken to the empty air, for the Superior had gone. 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


162 

The girl rose hurriedly to her feet, and, advancing 
toward the door, turned the key in the lock. Then she 
sat down again by the table, and, clasping Lament’s letter 
in her hands, burst into a passion of tears. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


BILL TAYLOR SPEAKS. 

“ Some of those who call themselves humble resemble Diogenes, whose pride was 
seen through the holes in his cloak.” — Helvetius. 

For some time after Lament had left Santa Fe, Corde- 
lia remained at Our Lady of Guadaloupe, waiting patiently 
for news of Miss Hericourt, and definite knowledge about 
the money. The Superior, who had her own plans, 
showed great interest in the matter, treating the girl with 
a half-deferential tenderness, which to a less innocent 
nature would have been full of significance. 

However, when the stage-coach driven by Bill Taylor 
returned to the city about a month after its departure, the 
intelligence of the supposed death of Mrs. Aldergrove 
during the journey was instantly spread abroad, and pro- 
duced not a little excitement. The military governor at 
once sent out messengers to several bands of friendly 
Navajos and Apkehes, offering magnificent rewards, in 
those goods which Indians prize, for any news of the 
missing woman, and still greater treasures for her restora- 
tion to her friends. Cordelia, naturally, was one of the 
last to hear of what had occurred. It was not until late 
in the evening that a sister came to tell her a man was 
at the convent-door inquiring for Miss Aldergrove. 

‘‘Miss Aldergrove!” Cordelia repeated in astonish- 
ment. “There must be some mistake.” 


163 


164 


A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE. 


So I told him/’ the sister answered ; ‘‘ but he insisted 
that Miss Aldergrove was here, and said he wished to 
speak with her about her relatives.” 

Cordelia descended the stairs, filled with a vague appre- 
hension. As she entered the small reception-room, a man 
advanced from a corner in which he was seated, and, hat 
in hand, addressed her. 

“My name is Taylor, — William Taylor, — better known 
as Bill Taylor, Miss,” he said with deference. “And, you 
see, I drives a coach from here to Independence and back; 
and we took over some kin of yours last trip.” 

“Yes,” said Cordelia, “that is true; but my name is 
not Aldergrove.” 

“Not Aldergrove.?” echoed Taylor. “Why, wa’n’t 
them ladies your aunt and cousins .?” 

“They were related to me,” said Cordelia, “but you 
seem to have mixed the names. Mine is Hericburt.” 

“ Oh, well ! the name don’t matter so long as it’s one 
on ’em,” said Taylor, looking relieved. “Aldergrove or 
Hericourt, it’s all the same. Two of the ladies was as 
much alike as any two peas, and you and t’other one 
couldn’t be told apart nohow. I never saw any thing like 
it, never ! ” 

“ My aunt and one of my cousins resemble each other 
very much,” said Cordelia, still in some surprise. 

“That they did, Miss; and, for the life of me, I don’t 
know to this day which one on ’em it was. I hope,” he 
added, seeing her look at him inquiringly, “as how you 
won’t think we was to blame. Why, bless your soul, 
Miss ! we went back, and buscared (looked) around for 
ever so long; though there was Indian trails all about us.” 

“ I don’t think I quite understand,” said Cordelia : 
“were you menaced by the Indians .? ” 

**I don’t know nothin’ about menacing,”’ said Taylor 
bluntly ; “ and, Lord, Miss ! you must excuse me, but 


BILL TAYLOR SPEAR'S. 1 65 

I would swear anywhere as you was the young lady I 
drove from here to Independence.” 

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Cordelia hastily; “but please 
tell me why you are here. What have you come to tell 
me ? ” 

“ Why, you see. Miss, the Professor gave me a letter for 
you,” said Taylor, fumbling in his pocket. “I’d almost 
forgot about it, but here it is. You know Professor 
Hoveden, Miss } ” 

“I have seen him,” answered Cordelia; “but why should 
he write to me ? ” 

“ He’s a fine gentleman, he is,” said Bill Taylor mus- 
ingly. “ When the accident happened ” — 

“Accident ! ” exclaimed Cordelia, turning pale. “What 
do you mean ? ” 

“It’s all here, I guess. Miss. The Professor writ this 
’ere letter in Independence, and told me to carry it back 
to Santa Fe to Miss Aldergrove. And a heap of trouble 
I’ve had, too, in findin’ you ; and you say you’re not Miss 
Aldergrove neither.” 

“ Never mind,” said Cordelia, tearing open the letter 
with trembling fingers. “Professor Hoveden has mis- 
taken the name, but it makes no difference.” She walked 
to the table, where a lamp was burning. The uncertain, 
flickering light fell upon the sheet, which was worn and 
discolored from long acquaintance with Taylor’s pocket. 
It was written in unformed characters, and bore evidence 
of having been hastily penned. It ran thus : — 

Dear Miss Aldergrove, — It is my sad duty to inform you, that 
a terrible accident occurred to us three days after leaving Santa Fe. 
One of the ladies who had placed themselves in my care during the 
journey, mysteriously disappeared during the night ; and it is supposed 
that she fell out of the stage while asleep, or that she jumped out 
while dreaming. This lady, dear Miss Aldergrove, was your esteemed 
mother; and her loss has been mourned by your relatives, and the 
members of our party, as much, I might almost say, as it will be by 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


1 66 

you. I need not tell you, that search was made everywhere for her. 
Unfortunately, our investigations but confirmed the suspicion pre- 
viously conceived, that she had been carried off by the Indians, who 
were known to be in the neighborhood. This sad occurrence has 
thrown gloom upon us all, and I beg herewith to tender you my 
warmest sympathy in your great affliction. Your aunt and cousin 
bear up bravely under their trial, and have displayed throughout great 
courage and fortitude ; but it is easy to see that this new sorrow, fol- 
lowing so soon upon the recent death of Major He'ricourt, has pro- 
duced a powerful and melancholy effect upon them. I was told by 
Miss Hdricourt, that you had remained in Santa Fe ; and it is by her 
request that I write. 

With renewed sympathy and great respect, 

I remain, dear Miss Aldergrove, 

Truly yours, 

Julius Hoveden. 

p.S. — Should you at any time be in need of my services, my New- 
York address is loo Pine Street. I beg that you will command me if 
necessary. 

An exclamation escaped Cordelia’s lips as she finished 
reading, and the sheet dropped from her hand to the floor. 
Bill Taylor, whose glance meanwhile had wandered about 
the room, now looked at her with an expression of interest. 

“ I suppose. Miss, he tells you how it all happened ? ” he 
said interrogatively. 

“ No,” Cordelia answered mechanically : “he gives none 
of the particulars, except to say that my cousin fell or 
jumped out of the stage during the night. It is terrible.” 

“Your cousin! Oh, yes, Miss I I remember you said 
your name was Hericourt. It’s perfectly ridiculous, — the 
likeness, I mean,” said Taylor hastily, fearing she might 
think he referred to the accident. “You see. Miss,” he 
added, “it happened in the night, while everybody was 
asleep except me. The horses was just a-goin’ it ; and their 
feet made such a noise on the road, that I couldn’t have 
heard any thing short of a thunder-clap. The first thing I 


BILL TAYLOR SPEAKS. 1 6 / 

knowed about it was when the two ladies began to shriek 
and yell in the morning. I thought they saw Indians, and 
was scared, I’ll admit. I stopped the stage, jumped down, 
and ran round to the back where the ladies was. The gen- 
tlemen were all awake, and followed me. When we reached 
the ladies’ compartment, — they was separated from the 
other passengers by a thick buffalo-robe, — there was Miss 
Hericourt, and the young lady who looks like you, a-starin’ 
at an empty seat, as if they seed a ghost. They was just 
so frightened they couldn’t speak, and I don’t wonder at 
it ; for t’other lady — Mrs. Aldergrove — was clean gone. 
There wa’n’t no sign of her anywhere.” Taylor paused 
to observe the effect of his narrative. Cordelia did not 
speak, but she motioned to him to continue. 

“Of course,” he said, “we was a’most paralyzed. We 
couldn’t think, to save us, where on earth the lady had 
gone. The only thing she could ha’ done was to fall out 
or jump out. There was a high back to the stage, fastened 
by straps ; so she couldn’t ha’ got out over that.” 

“And that was the only way.?” asked Cordelia, almost 
breathlessly. 

“No, Miss. The side of the stage had a curtain on to 
it, and this ’ere curtain had been rolled up to let the air in. 
The only thing between the lady and the road was a strap, 
about four or five inches above the seat where she sat.” 

“ Could she have fallen out over that ? ” 

“Well, yes, she might. Miss; although the strap would 
be liable to break. It wasn’t broken. The young lady 
said as how Mrs. Aldergrove used to walk in her sleep. 
Perhaps she jumped out.” 

“ I never heard of her having walked in her sleep,” said 
Cordelia thoughtfully. “ But my cousin probably knows. 
It is very mysterious and dreadful. Did you find no trace 
of her whatever when you went back to search ? ” 

“ Only a bit of crape-stuff. Miss, such as her veil was 


i68 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


made out of. It was lying in the road several miles back. 
There was trails there too,” he added significantly. 

“And you think she was carried off by Indians } ” asked 
Cordelia quickly. “ Oh, this is horrible ! ” She covered 
her face with both hands, and remained standing thus for 
some time. Taylor turned his hat about in his fingers 
with embarrassment. It was a new experience to him to 
be the bearer of so sad and important a piece of intelli- 
gence to a young lady, and he was alive to the situation. 

“Don’t take on. Miss,” he said presently. “Perhaps 
she ain’t dead after all. She may be a wanderin’ around 
with no scalp, but she mayn’t be dead.” 

Cordelia did not answer. She was too overcome to 
speak. She removed her hands from her face in a few mo- 
ments, and looked sadly at Taylor. 

“ I thank you for coming to me, and for having delivered 
the letter,” she said. “This is terrible news to me; for, 
although I did not know my cousin intimately, the thing 
in itself is so shocking, that, had a perfect stranger been 
involved, I should feel equally distressed.” 

“ I’m glad you don’t mind much,” said Taylor ; “ and if 
I can do any thing for you, Miss, I hope you’ll let me 
know. Everybody in Santa Fe can tell you I’m a man of 
my word. You can trust Bill Taylor, Miss,” he added 
proudly. 

“ I am sure of it,” said Cordelia abstractedly. She was 
thinking of Mrs. Aldergrove, and scarcely heard him. 
Taylor felt that his errand had been accomplished, and 
moved toward the door. 

“ I’ll say good-evenin’, Miss,” he said politely. “ I’m at 
the stage-office, if you want me.” 

“Thank you,” said Cordelia. “Good-evening.” 

The man bowed with a rough courtesy that seemed out 
of place in him, and, opening the door, went into the hall. 
Cordelia heard the tread of his heavily shod feet upon the 


BILL TAYLOR STB A ITS. 1 69 

gravel-path outside, as he walked toward the convent- 
gate. 

She picked up the paper from the floor where it had 
fallen, and read it through once more. The mistake Pro- 
fessor Hoveden had made in the name puzzled her, but 
she attributed it to the haste and confusion in which the 
letter had evidently been written. She sat down, and 
thought the matter over calmly ; for she was not one to 
become excited or unnerved at any disagreeable news. 
Besides, she had never cared much for Mrs. Aldergrove, 
who had taken no pains to make herself agreeable to any 
one ; so the affair called forth merely the surprise and 
horror which any tender-hearted woman would feel at a 
similar event. 

She left the room a little later with the letter in her 
hand, and, going to the Superior’s room, knocked lightly. 

The apartment occupied by this estimable lady was bet- 
ter furnished than any other in the convent. There was a 
prie-dieu of carved wood by the bedside ; and the centre- 
table had a cover of red cloth, embroidered in pale yellow 
silk. 

When Cordelia entered, the Superior, "seated in a well- 
cushioned chair, was reading from a book of devotional 
exercises, which she laid aside on seeing her visitor. She 
always wore spectacles when she read, which lent an addi- 
tional air of severity to her countenance. 

Ah, my child ! ” she said softly. “Have you come to 
keep me company for a while } I am an old woman now, 
Cordelia ; but my heart is still young. I enjoy having youth- 
ful faces about me, if they are also good ones.” She leaned 
back in her chair, as was her custom when conversing, 
and crossed her large feet upon a footstool of faded wool- 
work before her. 

“ I have something to tell you, mother,” said Cordelia, 
standing beside her. “I hope I do not interrupt your 
reading.” 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


170 

“Prayers for a lost soul,” said the Superior solemnly, 
tapping the book with a significant gesture. “You know 
to whom I refer.” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” said the girl thoughtfully. “But 
I came to speak of something else, mother. This letter has 
just been given to me. Read it.” 

She held out the sheet; and the Superior grasped it 
eagerly, her joyless expression changing suddenly to one 
of expectancy. It was not every day that a letter was re- 
ceived at the convent, and this one was pervaded with a 
peculiar air of mystery and interest. She opened it hastily, 
her keen black eyes scanning the lines almost feverishly. 
Her face altered, however, as she read ; and finally she 
stopped, and threw the letter on the table. 

“ I thought it referred to the money,” she said, unable 
to conceal her disappointment. 

“ Have you read it through } ” asked Cordelia. “ Do 
you know what has happened .? ” 

“An accident, I see,” said the Superior, “to Mrs. 
Aldergrove. Why, may I ask, are you addressed as Miss 
Aldergrove ? ” 

“A mistake of Professor Hoveden’s, I suppose. He 
wrote, probably, in a hurry, and substituted one name for 
the other.” 

“ H’m ! ” said the Superior briefly, looking sharply at 
Cordelia as she spoke. She took the paper again into her 
hands, and glanced over its contents. “A sad accident 
indeed,” she said, recovering herself, and nodding gravely. 
“ Were you fond of your cousin ? ” 

“ No,” said Cordelia. “ I had no affection for her. She 
was one of those stiff, impenetrable persons, whose very 
voice causes one to shiver. I never liked her; but her 
fate seems, nevertheless, a cruel one.” 

“Yes, so it is — so it is,” said the Superior, nodding 
again in an abstracted way. “ Was she a member of the 
Church ? ” 


BILL TAYLOR SPEAKS. 


171 


*‘No, — a zealous Protestant.” 

“I thought,” said the Superior, stifling a yawn, “the 
letter might refer to your fortune ; but of course it is too 
soon for any news of that kind. How long it takes, does 
it not } I hope, my child, that your mind and heart are 
still filled with the desire to be useful to Christ and his 
Holy Church, of which you used to speak to me before 
you came here.” 

“Yes, mother: my desires are the same now as they 
were in the beginning.” 

“Then, why worry about Mrs. Aldergrove or any one 
else ^ Does not God order all things for the best ? He 
had, doubtless, some motive in bringing this accident to 
pass.” 

“Perhaps so,” answered Cordelia. “But you mistake 
in supposing that I worry myself, mother. I was only 
surprised, and deeply shocked. Taylor, the stage-driver, 
has just been here, and told me how it all happened. Shall 
I give you the particulars ? ” 

“No, never mind,” said the Superior. “It does not 
interest me. Let us talk, instead, about the work we are 
to accomplish with the money.” 

“ Very well,” said Cordelia ; although she was beginning 
to weary of a subject that was constantly under discussion. 
“ Have you formed any fresh plans, mother ? ” 

“Only this. I would not, if I were you, devote the 
entire sum to the founding of a new order. Why not 
give a part of it to the convent ? You know we are very 
poor ; and the Bishop, I am sure, will advise it. But of 
course, my child, this is merely a suggestion, to be acted 
upon, or not, as you may see fit.” She sighed, and glanced 
at the girl with assumed indifference. 

“Certainly, mother. It shall be my pleasure to help 
you if I can,” said Cordelia readily. 

“You know how much the money would be to us,” the 


172 


A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE. 


Superior went on, speaking with more animation than 
usual. “Our position here is not what it ought to be. 
The sisters are all very poor. I myself ” — 

“Yes, mother, I know,” interrupted Cordelia quickly. 
“I thank you for reminding me, and I will gladly make* 
you more comfortable. It will not take all my money to 
found the order. The rest is yours. I give it to you 
cheerfully.” 

“Ah, my child ! ” exclaimed the Superior, rising to clasp 
the girl in a strong embrace. “ I knew you were gener- 
ous and noble ! That unworthy priest — that apostate, for 
whose soul I have just uttered fervent prayers — sought 
to prevail upon your feelings to his own advantage. Real 
friendship he had none for you, Cordelia. But, now that 
he is gone, his influence has waned, thank God ! I am 
your true friend, my child. You see that, do you not ? ” 

“ I think you have kindly feelings toward me, mother,” 
said Cordelia, with a smile. “As for the money, I wish 
the Church to benefit by it ; and you, as a representative 
of the Church, shall have a portion of it to give to the 
convent, which has been a good friend to me, and offered 
me protection and hospitality when others forsook me.” 
She spoke with some emotion, and, after a pause, added, 
“But you must say nothing against Lamont, mother. He 
is still my friend.” 

“Yes,” said the Superior, with another sigh. “I regret 
to see that your mind yet dwells upon this unworthy and 
wretched man. But he is far away now, Cordelia: you 
will see him no more.” 

Cordelia bent her head sadly in assent. 

“You are right,” she said presently: “I shall see him 
no more.” For a few moments she seemed lost in thought, 
and failed to notice the Superior’s triumphant smile. 

“ And this cousin of yours, Margaret Aldergrove,” re- 
sumed the Superior after a moment’s thought, “who is 


BILL TAYLOR SPEAKS. 


173 


she, and what is she ? Did you not tell me once that you 
were very much alike ? ” 

“ Yes : we resemble each other so closely, that strangers, 
and sometimes even intimate friends, cannot tell us apart.” 

“ I think you told me some time ago that she had a 
small freckle on her neck, while you had none.” 

“Yes, mother : what a good memory you have ! ” 

“ Have I ever seen her, do you think } ” 

“Never to my knowledge. She seldom went out, and 
you are not often in the streets.” 

“ I think I met her in the plaza a few days after you 
heard of the money awaiting you in France,” said the 
Superior, reflecting. “ She was dressed in black, and we 
came face to face. I spoke, thinking she was you, and 
was about stopping to shake hands, when she swept by 
without a word, or even a look of recognition. At the 
time I did not know what to think of the occurrence. I 
felt hurt that you should treat me rudely. Now I under- 
stand it all.” 

“Ah! you know I would not have acted in that way. 
You met my cousin surely. She does not take kindly to 
priests and nuns, and doubtless intended to slight you.” 

“Yes,” said the Superior to herself, nodding kindly to 
Cordelia as the latter left the room. “I was beginning 
to think we had Margaret Aldergrove the Protestant here, 
instead of Cordelia Hericourt the Catholic; but now I 
see my mistake. And yet I was sure the woman who 
passed me in the plaza was Cordelia, and that she was 
even then getting ready to repent of her good intentions. 
It is a wonderful likeness. I wonder if our visitor’s neck 
is free from the tell-tale mark?” 


CHAPTER XX. 

A MYSTERY. 

If life be nothing more than a baiting-place, why should we be so interested in 
the affairs that concern it ? Does a traveller repair the walls of an inn where he is to 
pass the night only ? ” 

The days and weeks passed, and news from Miss Heri- 
court was expected at the convent ; but none came. 
Cordelia estimated the time required for her aunt to 
transact the necessary business arrangements, and write 
definitely about the money ; and she found, in so doing, 
that the utmost limit had been exceeded. This inexpli- 
cable silence on the part of Miss Hericourt began to alarm 
her niece ; and her fears were fully shared by the Supe- 
rior, whose anxiety, indeed, was sometimes distressing to 
witness. By the advice of the latter, Cordelia finally wrote 
a long letter to the Bishop of Avignon to make inquiry. 
Some time elapsed before the answer was received ; but 
it reached the convent at last, just as the girl was looking 
out upon the future with a heavy heart and a perplexed 
miyd. 

His Grace of Avignon had been greatly astonished at 
Miss Hericourt’s communication, and begged to state that 
the older of the two heirs to the fortune had duly pre- 
sented herself, that she had been satisfactorily identified 
by means of a photograph previously forwarded by Padre 
Lamont of Santa Fe, and that she had brought with her, 
m 


A MYSTERY, 


175 


besides, conclusive documents. The money had been in 
her possession for several months, and she had satisfac- 
torily explained the non-appearance of her niece. His 
Grace might, therefore, be pardoned for finding the young 
lady’s letter somewhat extraordinary. 

From the tone of these words, it was evident that the 
Bishop had little faith in Cordelia’s pretensions, and was 
inclined to think she was some distant relative of the 
Hericourts, anxious to claim a portion of the wealth. Of 
course, he said nothing of the kind ; but his meaning was 
plain enough. 

When this letter was received at the convent, it occa- 
sioned an excitement such as had, doubtless, never before 
been seen within its grim walls. It would be difficult to 
describe the precise impression produced upon Cordelia by 
the Bishop’s peculiar language. That her aunt had suc- 
ceeded in obtaining the money was evident ; but whither 
had she gone with it and why was not Cordelia’s own 
share forthcoming .? Could an accident have happened to 
her as well as to Mrs. Aldergrove } Miss Hericourt had 
never been able to take care of herself, and something 
must have occurred to prevent her writing. But what 
was to be done 1 The remarkable silence of Miss Heri- 
court was not a thing to be treated lightly, for it involved 
therein too much that was important. But Cordelia was 
alone, unprotected, and without either friends or money. 
Had her aunt been captured by brigands, and robbed of 
her newly acquired wealth 1 Had she, perchance, been 
killed in some railway accident } What terrible mystery 
underlay the Bishop’s letter ? More than ever did poor Cor- 
delia regret the loss of Lamont, whose counsel now would 
have been invaluable. What madness, she wondered in 
her perplexity, had induced Miss Hericourt to set out on 
so venturesome a journey, one might say alone 1 And, 
besides the trouble and anxiety in regard to her aunt, Cor- 


176 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


delia felt keenly the annihilation of all her hopes of useful- 
ness. There was now no money to found the order she 
desired to institute — no money for the convent — no pros- 
pect of any thing being done by her to further the inter- 
ests of her religion ; and this was a terrible blow, both to 
her and the Superior. Had a bombshell suddenly ex- 
ploded upon the convent-roof, it could hardly have created 
more consternation than did the letter from his Grace of 
Avignon. The Superior, overcome by a disappointment 
which succeeded effectually in obscuring her judgment 
and all her better faculties, sat in her own room, wringing 
her hands in despair and rage ; while the sisters, feeling 
each a personal cause for chagrin, whispered together 
with gloomy countenances. 

On the morning following the receipt of the letter, the 
Superior sent for Cordelia. 

“ I wish to speak to you, my child, about this dreadful 
news,” she began, her voice betraying great emotion. 

“ There is really nothing to be said,” replied Cordelia 
gravely. What good will it do to talk about it } My 
aunt has the money, and has made no mention of it. 
When I am able to collect my thoughts, I must take 
active measures at once, in order to discover where she is. 
It will require some time to do this, but I shall leave 
nothing undone that may lead me to the desired end.” 

“That is, no doubt, easily said, but difficult to put into 
practice,” answered the Superior. “ How can you take 
active means to discover the whereabouts of Miss Heri- 
court.? Such things require money and influential friends : 
you have neither.” She spoke bitterly, as if Cordelia were 
responsible for the calamity that had occurred. 

“You are right, mother,” said Cordelia : “I have neither, 
but I may have both in time.” 

“You are ambitious and sanguine, and I regret to see 
it ; for they are qualities particularly dangerous to a wo- 


A MYSTERY. 


177 


man, — a young woman especially. Ambition is seldom 
gratified, and it occasions the waste of much good material 
that might be employed to a better advantage. Enthusi- 
asm leads us everywhere except to the right place, show- 
ing us things which have the semblance of reality, but 
which turn to shadows in our grasp. No, no, Cordelia, 
do not cultivate these traits.” 

“And yet,” said the girl earnestly, “was any thing 
worth mentioning ever accomplished without ambition 
and enthusiasm } Both, surely, incite to vigorous action, 
and must sometimes, even though it occur by chance, 
strike the right spot. Every failure, too, has its own 
value. We learn one thing which in future is to be 
avoided.” 

“ I do not care to discuss the natter,” said the Supe- 
rior. “ I wish to talk about your aunt and the money. 
You think something — an accident perhaps — has hap- 
pened to her. Now, I have a different idea altogether.” 
She paused, and looked at Cordelia significantly. 

“What do you mean, mother?” asked the girl, in some 
astonishment. 

“Listen,” said the Superior, leaning forward, and bring- 
ing her hand forcibly down upon the table. “Suppose 
your aunt, after leaving Santa Fe, regretted having prom- 
ised to give her share of the fortune to the Church. Why 
may she not have gone off with the money, to enjoy her- 
self in luxury and wickedness ? ” 

Cordelia started, and her face changed color. “Take 
care, mother,” she said, with an effort to be calm. “You 
speak without reflection. You cannot mean what you 
say. My aunt may be weak, and wanting in depth of 
character; but she is not a thief.” Her manner was dig- 
nified; but, now that Cordelia’s wealth was not even a 
matter for speculation, the Superior cared little what was 
said. 


178 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


‘‘You have heard my opinion,” she replied coldly. 
“ Miss Hericourt was never so devoted to our holy faith 
as she pretended to be. She was insincere, and lacking in 
endurance. Once removed from your influence, who knows 
what thoughts may have taken possession of her, particu- 
larly as she was exposed to the schemes of your Protes- 
tant cousins The temptation was great, and doubtless 
beyond her strength. The loss is an immense one for the 
Church. Think of the work this money was to perform ! 
Think also of the good that now can never be forthcoming, 
and of the precious opportunity that has gone ! ” 

“Yes, it is very sad and unfortunate. I had hoped to 
do so much, and now I am powerless to do even a little. 
But my aunt is honest, mother. She would not defraud 
me of my rights. I know her well.” 

The Superior was silent for a moment. 

“ What will you do ? ” she asked presently. “ How can 
you begin to discover the truth } ” 

“ I can go away from here, and work until I have means 
at my disposal,” Cordelia answered bravely. “ I have a 
little money of my own, and I am not afraid to labor for 
more. If my aunt be alive, she must be found. At any 
rate, my fortune is somewhere ; and, even if it take years 
to get it, it will eventually be mine.” 

“Yes,” said the Superior with indifference; “but by 
that time, after having been so long removed from the 
immediate influence of the Church, your desires to help 
us will have grown cold, perhaps have ceased altogether. 
You will have formed new ties, fresh interests. The 
Church can never hope to benefit by any generosity of 
yours.” 

“That is not kindly spoken, mother,” said Cordelia 
rather sadly. “ It is hardly fair. Why should my present 
plans fade from my mind } ” 

“You are not always wise,” said the Superior, with the 


A MYSTERY. 


179 


air of one who thought herself infallible. “Your weak 
points were very apparent when that terrible priest was 
here. He had a most unwholesome effect upon you. He 
was never steadfast in his belief, and you did wrong to 
encourage him.” 

“ We have been over that ground already,” replied Cor- 
delia. “ We do not agree, so why discuss it } ” 

Neither spoke for a few seconds. The Superior, who 
felt herself to be the more unfortunate of the two, could 
not help letting Cordelia see that this was the case. She 
lay back in her chair, with her slippered feet crossed as 
usual upon a footstool, her coarse white stockings and a 
pair of shapeless ankles fully revealed, and with the out- 
lines of her portly figure clearly defined against the crim- 
son background of the chair. On the front of her gown 
were wanting several buttons, which had been replaced by 
pins ; and between the points of connection were glimpses 
of something white. At times her hard features wore an 
agreeable expression, but now they were set and immova- 
ble. Once or twice her eyes shone with animation as she 
spoke ; but these instances were rare, and did not often 
succeed the dull, heavy expression that was habitual. 

“ What do you propose to do ? ” she asked presently for 
the second time. 

“ Indeed, I have hardly thought about it,” Cordelia re- 
plied. “ I cannot stay here, of course. It will be better 
for me to go to New York, I think, where I can have every 
facility for advancing my inquiries about my aunt. I have, 
as I told you, a little money ; and I suppose I shall be 
able to secure a position of some kind. I shall always 
be capable of earning my own living.” 

“You will never find your aunt,” said the Superior 
decidedly. “She has gone off with the fortune, and is 
living somewhere under an assumed name, I am sure. 
By the time you have made money enough to procure 


l8o A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 

an investigation, she will be altogether out of your 
reach.” 

“I shall do what I can, at all events,” Cordelia said 
firmly. 

“To think,” cried the Superior, clasping her hands sud- 
denly, “ that our plans should be upset so completely by a 
thoughtless and weak-minded old woman ! Oh, it cannot 
be, Cordelia ! God will never permit it.” 

Cordelia’s faith in a special Providence was not, perhaps, 
so marked as the Superior’s. 

“ I do not believe my aunt has stolen my money,” she 
said. “And, as to our plans, they will yet be fulfilled.” 

“ Never, never ! ” cried the Superior passionately. “We 
shall never get it. Mankind is greedy. It prefers to 
pamper itself, and serve its own interests rather than 
God’s. I think often that man is the only despicable 
thing God ever created.” 

“And I,” exclaimed Cordelia forcibly, “sometimes 
think that God, as we understand him, is the only despic- 
able thing man ever created. No, no, mother, I do not 
mean that,” she added hastily, as the Superior, with a 
scream of horror, fell back upon her chair ; “ but your own 
words make me hardly conscious of what I am saying. 
Lamont, for instance, were he here ” — 

“ Don’t mention his name to me,” almost shrieked the 
Superior. “ He is an apostate and blasphemous. Never 
recall him to me again.” 

“Very well,” said Cordelia gravely. 

She rose in a few moments, and left the Superior to her 
own reflections. It was fortunate, perhaps, that the con- 
versation ended here ; for, as in a great many other things, 
nothing was to be gained by discussion : and Cordelia felt 
that the moment for decisive action had come. She could 
not, however, avoid being a little apprehensive about Mar- 
garet. Where was she, and why had she not written ? 


A MYSTERY. 


I8l 


Could she be travelling alone on the Continent ? or had 
she accompanied Miss Hericourt ? 

For some time she was at a loss how to act, but finally 
made hasty preparations to leave Santa Fe. Once in New 
York, she would find some means of communicating with 
her cousin, and learning the whereabouts of her aunt. 
The Superior made no objection to the girl’s proposed de- 
parture. She felt that in some way she had been imposed 
upon, and defrauded of her rights. To have a large sum 
of money slip through one’s fingers in so absurd a manner 
was, in her eyes, the most terrible misfortune that could 
happen. She had borne much for Cordelia’s sake. Had 
she not shown undeserved lenity toward Lamont } Had 
she not treated the girl’s own failures and shortcomings 
with kindness She had done this with the hope of a 
just reward, and now there was no reward. Her ener- 
gies had been wasted, and her best feelings sacrificed, for 
naught. She heartily wished she had never seen Cordelia. 
What if she were not Cordelia, after all } And, in her 
disappointment and doubt, she actually forgot to pray for 
the salvation of Lamont’s soul. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


CORDELIA MAKES A DISCOVERY. 

Bacio di bocca spesso cuor non tocca.” — Italian Proverb. 

When it became known to all in the convent that Miss 
Hericourt had disappeared with Cordelia’s money, a sud- 
den change took place in the manners of the inmates. 
The sisters said little in words ; but their looks were elo- 
quent, and plainly revealed the state of their minds. As 
for the Superior, she treated Cordelia as if she had com- 
mitted “the unpardonable sin,” — as if, in fact, the loss of 
the money had been her own fault. Naturally, this strange 
behavior puzzled the girl not a little. She had great faith 
in the Superior, notwithstanding the differences of opinion 
existing between them, and was sure her confidence in this 
good woman had not been misplaced. But she was at a 
loss to discover in what way she had offended those about 
her. She busied herself, however, with preparations for 
her departure, and tried not to think of this fresh mis- 
fortune. 

Two days before she left Santa Fe, the Bishop called at 
the convent, and conversed for some time with the Supe- 
rior about the double loss the Church had just sustained, 
in being deprived at once of Lamont and a large sum of 
money. 

“It was a horrible revelation to me,” said the Bishop con- 


CORDELIA MAKES A DISCOVERY. 1 83 

fidentially, ‘‘when Padre Lament made known his inten- 
tions. I have not yet recovered from the effects.” 

“Nor I,” said the Superior gloomily. “Your Grace 
doubtless heard of the terrible scene we had here with him, 
— how he absolutely forced his way into Cordelia’s pres- 
ence in spite of all I could do or say.” 

“Yes, yes, so I understand. And she Have you not 
had some trouble with her also ^ ” 

“Trouble!” exclaimed the Superior, raising her eyes, 
and clasping both hands. “ I hope I do no wrong in say- 
ing so, but her departure will be a great relief to us all. 
She is constantly thinking and talking of this despicable 
priest, and you can well imagine how disagreeable it is to 
us. I could never understand Cordelia. She has one of 
those characters which are chiefly remarkable for their 
independence ; and what is more dangerous, more execra- 
ble, than womanly independence ? ” 

“True, true,” said the Bishop with ready assent. “But 
about Padre Lament. He has been gone for some time, 
I hear.” 

“Yes, your Grace. He wrote a farewell letter to Cor- 
delia.” 

“And did you allow her to receive it.?” cried the Bishop 
angrily. “Did you permit her to write to him .? If so” — 
“What could I do.?” interrupted the Superior in an 
injured tone. “Had I ventured to impose my authority 
upon her, she might have taken offence ; and in that 
case the results would have been disastrous. I said 
every thing short of absolute command. And the worst 
of it is,” she added with a sigh, “that it has ended in 
nothing. There is no money after all, — not a penny.” 

“ No, not a penny,” repeated the Bishop thoughtfully. 
“ It is most extraordinary. I never heard of such a thing 
in my life. The idea of Miss Hericourt getting the for- 
tune. and going off with the whole of it in this manner ! 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


184 

I always thought her face was one in which weakness and 
deceit were equally blended.” 

“Yes, I have remarked it. It seems too hard — too un- 
fortunate,” said the Superior bitterly. “What advantages 
we have missed. And those poor girls ! Such an oppor- 
tunity will never occur again.” 

“ We needed the money badly enough,” sighed the 
Bishop. “ What a great power it is ! — the golden key 
which unlocks the doors of a thousand delightful realms, — 
even those of paradise itself.” He smiled sardonically, 
and looked at his companion interrogatively. 

The Superior nodded, although his figurative language 
seemed to impress her but slightly. “ It is the greatest 
trial of my life,” she said in a few moments, — “the loss 
of the money, I mean. I had hoped to take an active 
share in the work to be done. But God, I trust, will give 
me strength to bear the disappointment.” 

The Bishop was sitting in a comfortable arm-chair, with 
his hands resting on his knees. His face was very grave ; 
and, as the Superior ceased to speak, he drew a long, deep 
breath. 

“ It is God’s will, doubtless, that we should be visited 
simultaneously by two heavy trials,” he said. “The depri- 
vation of the money is, indeed, hard to bear; but what is it 
in comparison with the loss of Lamont’s soul } I loved 
him as if he were my own son.” 

“ I, too, liked him,” said the Superior stiffly. 

“It seemed so useless,” the Bishop went on, raising 
his tone. “ He has sacrificed all, and can gain nothing. 
Already he has been visited with contempt, and treated 
with violence ; and what happiness can love bring him at 
the cost of salvation ? ” 

“Love!” cried the Superior eagerly. “Does Lament 
love.? Was it for this — for this he disgraced himself.?” 
She felt her hands tremble as she asked the question. 


CORDELIA MAKES A DISCOVERY. 1 85 

and her breast heaved violently. The single word “love’* 
had been a revelation to her. 

“ Did you not know it } ” inquired the Bishop. “ He 
told me himself that he loved. I did not ask him the 
name of the woman, for I was too horrified to frame the 
words. But I suspect it to be Cordelia Hericourt.” 

“ Cordelia ! And she ” asked the Superior in a sup- 
pressed voice. 

“Ah! I know nothing about that,” said the Bishop, 
lifting his hand upon which the ruby sparkled. “ I asked 
him no questions. But this unholy passion,” he continued 
vehemently, “whether it be returned, or not, can be nothing 
but a curse to him hereafter, as it has been already.” 

“ I understand now,” said the Superior faintly. “ The 
girl’s conduct is explained to me. She bade me believe 
the relations existing between her and this man were of a 
purely friendly character. Oh ! how could I have been so 
blind } How could I have been so blind } ” 

“With your knowledge of the world,” said the Bishop, 
with slight sarcasm, “ I should have thought the impossi- 
bility of mere friendship between man and woman of 
certain ages would have occurred to you long ago, and 
likewise have been plainly demonstrated.” 

“True, it should have been,” she answered, not heeding 
his tone. She was too much overcome to say more ; and 
for several moments she was silent, as if endeavoring to 
collect her thoughts. “ I shall be glad when she goes,” 
she said finally. “ She is ungrateful, and has repaid my 
love with deceit.” 

“Be more careful yourself in future,” said the Bishop 
sternly. “But,” he added after a pause, “I wish this 
money could be found.” 

“It will never be found, — never,” wailed the Superior. 
The Bishop left the convent a little later; and then the 
Superior sought Cordelia, entering the girl’s presence so 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


1 86 

wildly, and with so unusual an expression, that it could 
hardly pass unnoticed. 

“Why, mother, what is the matter.?” she asked. “Why 
do you look at me in that way.? Have I offended you.?” 

“You have deceived me!” cried the Superior, giving 
full vent to her anger. “You never told me Lament was 
your lover ! You are false, — false and ungrateful ! ” 

Cordelia’s face flushed at this unexpected attack ; but 
she drew herself up, and looked the Superior full in the 
eyes. “He is not my lover,” she said steadily. “And 
you have no right to say such things to me.” 

“ I had it from the Bishop’s own lips 1 ” exclaimed the 
Superior, bending forward until her face almost touched 
the girl’s. “Lament confessed it to him. Dare you deny 
it now .? ” 

“ I shall not deny it,” said Cordelia proudly. “ I shall 
be silent. Think of me what you please : it makes no 
difference to me.” It was difficult for her to command 
her voice. 

“I have nourished a viper in my bosom,” cried the 
Superior brokenly. 

Cordelia turned away, and, going to her own room, 
entered it, and locked the door. 

A disagreeable truth, vaguely suspected during the past 
few days, dawned full upon her. She could not help noting 
the change which had taken place in those about her. 
The sisters, who hitherto had treated her with kindness 
and consideration, now hardly spoke to her ; and their 
looks betokened any thing but a friendly spirit. The 
Superior seemed all at once transformed. She was like a 
dog, who, carrying in his mouth a piece of meat, had seen 
it snatched and eaten by another dog. To bite the man 
who had given the meat would surely be useless and un- 
just, for it was not his fault that the other dog had stolen 
it. But this was what the Superior, metaphorically speak- 


CORDELIA MAKES A DISCOVERY. 1 8 / 

ing, intended to do. She wanted Cordelia to suffer for 
the disappointment she herself felt, and Cordelia began to 
perceive the unpleasant fact. 

She sat and thought about it with something like horror. 
Could it be possible that so much baseness existed in the 
world } Was self-interest paramount everywhere, even 
within the sacred walls of a convent } Was she through- 
out life to see nothing but the degrading spectacle of so 
many human beings, each struggling fiercely to be foremost, 
and to possess the best of every thing } Was this typical 
of human nature, — this selfishness which has at heart only 
its own well-being If so, what a key to the whole vast 
puzzle of humanity had been the light cast by recent 
actions and events ! For the first time Cordelia saw 
plainly that it was her money the Church wanted, and not 
herself. The Superior’s friendship had been exercised 
with a motive. Hospitality had been offered and given 
with the expectation of a reward ; and kind words had 
been uttered, not, indeed, from sentiment, but as a matter 
of policy. She recalled, with a shudder of disgust, the 
Superior’s constant inquiries about the money, and won- 
dered why she had not sooner understood the intentions 
of those who surrounded her. 

To remain another day beneath the convent-roof, she 
felt, would now be torture ; for the Superior’s vulgar exhi- 
bition of temper, during which her nature in all its gross- 
ness had been fully revealed, had shocked Cordelia pro- 
foundly. It had been a lesson, the entire significance of 
which was very apparent. And there was no one to whom 
the poor girl could turn for either advice or consolation. 
She thought of Lamont with bitter tears of regret. The 
friend who might have been of such service to her she 
had lost, never, perhaps, to find again. She thought, too, 
of her aunt and Margaret ; going carefully over every detail 
of the past in regard to them, and dwelling upon it. And, 


i88 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


in SO doing, a recollection suddenly occurred to her, spring- 
ing from the obscure background of half-forgotten events 
into prominence and brightness. She remembered the 
first conversation held with Lamont in the convent, when 
she had learned, with the fact of her aunt’s departure, the 
knowledge of his love. The scene came back to her with 
peculiar vividness. What had Lamont told her among other 
things ? Something she had denied almost indignantly 
ever having said. Had not Margaret and Mrs. Aldergrove 
assured every one that Cordelia had asked them to take 
her aunt to France in case any accident should happen to 
Cordelia herself ? She recalled this false statement now, 
with a thrill of nervous terror. Mrs. Aldergrove very 
likely was dead, — but Margaret.^ Would it be possible 
for her to assume Cordelia’s identity, and thus obtain the 
money ? 

Cordelia was alone in her room, which was a moderately 
large one, and lighted by a solitary lamp, which threw its 
pale rays across the table where she sat, leaving the rest 
of the apartment almost in darkness. As she thought of 
her cousin’s possible treachery, she rose from her chair 
involuntarily, and stood with one hand resting on its back, 
the other on the table. 

“No, it could not be,” she said half aloud. She was 
intensely agitated ; and the sound of her own voice, coming, 
it seemed, from a distance, made her tremble. 

She sat down again, and tried to recover herself. Her 
head was hot and feverish. The little clock, standing on 
a shelf near by, gave forth regular and distinct sounds; 
while its white face, gleaming in the obscurity, was like a 
human one with dark, expressionless features. Cordeliai 
rose once more, and paced the floor rapidly, trying to shake 
off the nervous dread which threatened to overcome her. 
She pressed both hands to her forehead, and made every 
effort to think calmly. After all, the idea was one which 


CORDELIA MAKES A DISCO FERK 1 89 

in a more collected moment would probably appear absurd. 
Margaret’s words, until now, had taken so little hold upon 
her mind, that she had completely forgotten them. They 
had very likely been spoken in jest ; and would Miss 
Hericourt, weak and unreliable as she was, countenance 
dishonesty } No : this surely was’ out of the question. 
Margaret, too, could not steal. Her character was a dis- 
agreeable one, but she was no thief. Cordelia recalled the 
Bishop’s letter, and then almost laughed at her foolish 
suspicion. The money, he said, had been given to Miss 
Hericourt, who had satisfactorily explained the non-appear- 
ance of the other heir. This was enough in itself to 
remove every doubt from her mind. Why had she not 
remembered it sooner? Yet the thought of Miss Heri- 
court troubled her still. Her aunt must be found, and the 
money obtained, — but how? Both ends must be accom- 
plished, and this meant great patience and many failures. 

It was not an enviable position for a girl of Cordelia’s 
age and temperament, but the difficulties that lay in her 
way did not cause her much alarm. 

She sent for Bill Taylor early on the following morning, 
and found that his stage left Santa Fe within twenty-four 
hours. This was welcome news, for the convent had be- 
come hateful to her. An army-officer and his wife, who 
were about to go to the United States, offered to take 
charge of her ; and she was glad to have in prospect this 
companionship, which, in a measure, kept her mind from 
brooding over her own misfortune. She keenly realized 
the fact, that of all things nothing so quickly engenders 
selfishness as to be in trouble and alone. To be sure, her 
trouble was not a very serious one. It was more disap- 
pointment than any thing else ; and this, to a really noble 
nature, means only a temporary forgetfulness of others. 
She had not coveted the money f )r herself ; for she had a 
little property of her own left to her by Major Hericourt, 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


190 

and her personal wants were few. But it was of her religion 
Cordelia thought with sorrow, — of the order she had in- 
tended to institute, — of the ignorant girls she had hoped 
to educate. And then, there was the Superior, whose bitter 
chagrin could not be concealed. The poor woman, who 
once had blamed Cordelia for being ambitious and san- 
guine, had possessed both these qualities herself in a high 
degree ; but this was nothing remarkable. A character 
without inconsistencies is as rare as the roc’s egg. 

When Cordelia finally bade adieu to the Superior and 
the sisters, a more formal ceremony had perhaps never 
been seen. No one could hide the secret satisfaction which 
swelled her breast, and the convent-doors closed upon the 
girl with a joyous sound that apparently re-echoed through- 
out the building. In the garden, the carnations and the 
Superior’s roses nodded cheerfully in the breeze ; while 
the slender stream of water, splashing lazily into the moss- 
covered marble basin, caught a hundred gleams of reflected 
light, and seemed to bury gems in the pool below. 

Cordelia set bravely out, filled with the hope which 
springs from a noble enterprise readily undertaken. Now 
and then Lament’s pale, determined face, upon which 
shone the ardor of truth, rose slowly up before her, and 
regarded her with a questioning sadness, — a look incom- 
prehensible in itself, and yet expressing more than she 
dared acknowledge. 

That night the Superior sent for Sister Josefa. 

“ Whom do you think we have nurtured in our bosoms 
these months past } ” she said to the nun. 

Cordelia Hericourt } ” 

No ! Margaret Aldergrove, her heretic cousin. I know 
it. I have the proof.” 

‘‘ Holy Virgin ! is it possible } ” 

She has gone to meet the apostate. Every thing now 
is as clear to me as day. There is a deep-laid scheme be- 


CORDELIA MAKES A DISCOVERY, IQ I 

tween them to get the money, I have been a fool, but 
one cannot always be ready to counteract the wiles of the 
Devil and his assistants. Go : that is all I wanted to say, 
but keep the knowledge to yourself. Yet stay one moment. 
She had a mark on her neck, which she removed with 
iodine. I examined it when she was asleep, and saw the 
iodine stain. A few days afterward I saw it again, and the 
mark was gone. Cordelia Hericourt had no mark on her 
neck. 

“Did you see the mark previously,’* ventured Sister 
Josef a. 

“Did I see it } No : why should it be necessary for me 
to see it. I saw the place where it was, and I saw the 
stuff she put on her neck to take it away.” 

“ I thought she had a stiff neck when the iodine was 
used,” said the nun timidly. 

“ Oh ! you did ^ Well, you are a bigger fool even than I 
took you to be. You may be deceived by such a tale, but 
I trust I have more sense. There, you can go ; and don’t 
forget to ask Our Blessed Lady of Guadaloupe to give you 
brains enough to perceive the truth.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


MRS. ALDERGROVE UNDER A NEW ASPECT. 

“ Eppur si muove.” 

Five years after the opening of this story, a lady and a 
little boy were talking earnestly together in the handsome 
drawing-room of a large old-fashioned country-house near 
New York. The lady was Mrs. Fielding, formerly Mrs. 
Aldergrove ; the boy, her step-son. 

Time had dealt gently with Mrs. Aldergrove, leaving 
on her features but slight trace of his passage. But her 
face was the same hard, determined one, and as unaccus- 
tomed to display emotion as it had always been. Her 
dark hair, now plentifully streaked with gray, was carefully 
parted in the middle, and brought smoothly over her fore- 
head without a curve or a wave. Her pale-blue eyes were 
still sharp and piercing ; but, like her daughter Margaret, 
she had contracted a habit of partly closing them when 
engaged in earnest conversation, as if for the purpose of 
shutting out any thing likely to interrupt the current 
of her thoughts. She carried her head erect ; and in her 
movements were a certain grace and dignity, which im- 
pressed those about her with a sense of her mental and 
physical power. How much of her expression was natural, 
and how much acquired, would have been a difficult ques- 
tion to answer. She had never been an attractive woman ; 
but the respect her manner instinctively commanded, per- 
haps took the place of admiration. 

192 


MRS. ALDERGROVE UNDER A NEIV ASPECT. 1 93 

The boy who stood facing her was not more than twelve 
years of age. He had light curly hair, and large, expres- 
sive blue eyes, wherein lay a trace of sadness. On the 
present occasion, he was evidently in trouble; but, notwith- 
standing a certain amount of uneasiness displayed by him, 
there was a frankness and manliness in his bearing alto- 
gether at variance with the idea of deceit. Now and then 
his lips quivered, but his voice was firm and strong. 

“And so, Richard,” Mrs. Fielding was saying in her 
cold, monotonous tones, “you still persist in telling me 
you saw a man this morning trying to force his way into 
the house } ” 

“Yes, m.other. I was awakened by the noise, and I got 
out of bed to look into the garden. The church-clock 
was striking four ; but it was daylight, and I could plainly 
see a man trying to get in by the library window.” 

“And did he succeed.?” asked Mrs. Fielding sarcas- 
tically. 

“Yes. He was half-way in when I called to him. He 
turned, and, on seeing me, ran off.” 

“ A likely story, indeed ! ” said Mrs. Fielding decidedly. 
“At the very hour you mention, I was sitting at my win- 
dow, which, as you know, adjoins the library. Your words 
are not to be believed for an instant. Such a circum- 
stance as the one you have related could not have occurred 
without my knowledge.” 

“Mother,” said the boy, drawing a step nearer to her, 
“I saw the man as plainly as I now see you. He was a 
big fellow, and frightful looking. He wore a slouched hat, 
and was in his shirt-sleeves. In one hand he carried a 
pistol, and in the other a crowbar.” 

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Fielding sharply. “How ex- 
traordinary it is, Richard, that you will persist in telling 
me such a lie, — such a wilful and worthless lie, — one 
from which you have nothing to gain, and one uttered 


194 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


apparently from the mere desire to lie ! Why will you 
continually persevere in falsehood, and distress me in this 
unwarrantable manner? Since your unfortunate father 
died, the habit seems to have grown upon you. How did 
you contract it in the beginning ? From whom do you 
inherit it ? Not from him, certainly ; and, as for your 
mother ” — 

“Ah! do not speak of her!” interrupted the boy hastily. 
“You never knew her ; and — and she never called me a 
liar.” 

“Then, she did not do her duty by you ! ” exclaimed Mrs. 
Fielding with emphasis. “ For I have known you almost 
since the day she died, and you have always been a liar.” 

The child’s face flushed painfully, but he made no 
answer. 

“And yet,” Mrs. Fielding continued calmly, “there is 
a strangeness, an unnaturalness, about the lies you tell, 
which I find it difficult to comprehend. In the ordinary 
events of life, you have never, to my knowledge, told me 
a falsehood, — never uttered an untrue word to save your- 
self from punishment or blame. Why, then, do you come 
to me with stories of fires, of soldiers, of robbers, and a 
hundred other ridiculous things which cannot possibly be 
true ? In vain have I pleaded and reasoned with you ; and 
now, though I know you are not speaking the truth, you 
persist in repeating this absurd story over and over again 
in spite of my proofs and entreaties.” 

Richard looked at his step-mother frankly and fear- 
lessly. “ I am not telling you a lie,” he said. “ I did see 
the man.” 

Mrs. Fielding was silent for a moment, as though re- 
flecting upon the course to pursue. Suddenly she ad- 
vanced a step, and laid her hand upon the boy’s shoulder, 
looking down upon his childish form with cold scrutiny. 

“ Richard,” she said in a low tone, “ when your father 


MliS. ALDERGROVE UNDER A NEW ASPECT. I95 

died, he left you in my care ; and I promised to bring you 
up in the paths of honor and virtue. You have not helped 
me to keep my promise, though I think I have done my 
duty to the full extent of my ability. Your sister thinks she 
is old enough to look after herself ; and I have, therefore, 
scarcely undertaken to impose my authority upon her: but 
you are yet a child, and, as such, subject to my control. 
Castaly is rebellious and headstrong by nature, much to 
my regret ; for my niece Cordelia hoped, in spite of the 
difference between their ages, to find in her a companion, 
— a hope which, it is needless to say, has not been realized. 
But you, Richard, I have found amenable to reason, except 
in this one particular. Unless you correct this great 
fault, you will be disgraced and shunned in this world ; and, 
in the next, the loss of your immortal soul will be your 
final punishment.” Mrs. Fielding paused, and her ex- 
pression grew melancholy. “You are very young yet,” 
she added, “ but quite old enough to understand me, and 
to distinguish truth from falsehood. Now, think well 
before you speak, and then look me in the face and tell 
me the truth.” 

Tears stood in Richard’s eyes, and for an instant he 
hesitated. “ I have never told you a lie in my life,” he 
said finally, raising his face toward that of his step-mother. 
“ I did see the man. If I should say I did not see him, I 
should then lie. I will not do it.” 

He spoke the words almost passionately, and an ex- 
pression of determination appeared upon Mrs. Fielding’s 
stern features. “Then,” she said, “there is but one thing 
for me to do. It is very clear that you do not appreciate 
my feelings in regard to you. You have a wicked heart, 
and you are wilful and obstinate. Did Fuse no means to 
bring you to a proper sense of your unworthiness, I should 
fail in my duty to the living and to the dead. I have ap- 
pealed to you to no purpose ; and now I am compelled to 


196 


A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE. 


use force, lest you go unchecked to destruction. I shall 
lock you in your room, and give you nothing to eat but 
bread and water until you confess the truth.” 

“I did see the man,” Richard repeated, with no evidence 
of yielding. If you lock me up, it will be for telling the 
truth.” 

“You could not have seen him,” said Mrs. Fielding. 
“ I have been in the garden, and have looked carefully at 
the soft earth beneath the window. There are no foot- 
prints there such as would have been made by a man who 
had stood in the place. Go yourself, and look. Stand on 
the soft ground, and see how deeply even your slight 
weight impresses it.” 

The boy left the room eagerly, anxious apparently to 
obtain the proof that his story was correct. During his 
absence, Mrs. Fielding walked up and down the floor, her 
forehead contracted into an ugly frown, her lips sternly 
compressed, her expression evincing a fixed determination 
to act with promptness and firmness. 

“ God has imposed a hard task upon me,” she said to 
herself, clasping her hands, and raising her eyes reverently 
to the ceiling. “ But it is not the first time He has done so. 
A hard task truly, but nothing in comparison with what I 
have already endured. With His aid, however, I will per- 
form it, even if it kill both Richard and me. Far better for 
the boy to be in his grave than live wicked and dishonored. 
And, as for me, what have I to cling to in this world ex- 
cept Margaret, who is well able to do without me } Well, 
Richard,” she continued, as he entered the room, “what 
have you to say ^ Did you find the footprints ^ ” 

“ No, mother : they are not there. John must have raked 
them over.” 

“John has done nothing of the sort ! ” cried Mrs. Field- 
ing angrily. “They are not there, simply because they 
never existed. For the last time, Richard, do not force me 


MRS. ALDERGROVE UNDER A NEW ASPECT. 1 97 

to extreme measures. Oh that God would put it into 
your heart to confess the truth ! ” 

“ It is you who are wrong ! ” exclaimed the boy, his fair 
face red with anger. “ It is you who sin, and not I. You 
would force me to lie, and I will not, — no, not if you put 
me into a cell, and starve me.” 

“ It is not advisable to add insult to your other faults, 
Richard,” said Mrs. Fielding, a tinge of color overspread- 
ing her features. “You are wicked enough without that. 
Come with me. In solitude, and with the assistance of a 
meagre diet, I trust you will be able to obtain a clearer 
view of your perverseness. Pray to God to change your 
heart.” 

Richard followed her silently as she moved toward the 
door. There he stood for a moment irresolutely, as if a 
passing thought of rebellion had flashed through his mind. 
But then his face assumed a look of despair, a strange 
expression for one so young ; and with tearful eyes and 
heaving breast he unhesitatingly ascended the broad 
marble staircase that led to his room. Half-way up, a 
window of stained glass, through which the sunlight pene- 
trated, cast here and there long streaks of brilliant color, 
which danced backward and forward fantastically as the 
trees outside on the lawn swayed in the breeze. Mrs. 
Fielding looked at Richard with an air of resolution into 
which no pity could enter. At the threshold of his door 
the child stopped once more, and raised his eyes appeal- 
ingly; but, seeing no sign of relenting upon his step- 
mother’s face, he entered the room without speaking. 

Mrs. Fielding glanced hurriedly around, as if to make 
sure that no loophole of escape existed. Then she closed 
and locked the door from the outside, and, dropping the 
key into her pocket, walked with a stately air across the hall 
to her own bedroom. Here she seated herself in a com- 
fortable chair at a bay-window that looked out upon the 
lawn. 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


198 

The breeze blew the lace curtains far into the room, and 
filled it with the perfume of flowers. Below, the wide- 
spreading trees cast broad shadows upon the grass ; while 
beyond, a miniature lake could be seen, with the blue sky 
reflected on its surface, which glistened in the morning 
light as though strewn with precious stones. 

To Mrs. Fielding, however, the beauties of art and na- 
ture by which she was surrounded were little worthy of 
attention at any time ; and now she was too deeply occu- 
pied with her thoughts to notice them. So she turned her 
back deliberately to the window, and with half-closed eyes 
gave herself up to reflection. 

Certainly the situation had its unpleasant aspects ; and, 
had her own personal comfort been consulted, she would 
have striven to avoid it. But she was fully convinced of 
having done her utmost to escape the alternative which 
had been forced upon her. She was, unfortunately, so 
constituted that she was unable to penetrate very deeply 
below the surface of any matter requiring investigation ; 
and she was often governed by the obvious and superficial 
circumstances of such affairs. Moreover, she had devel- 
oped overpowering prejudices, which, with her defective 
knowledge of things, prevented the exercise of any thing 
like deliberate judgment. She prided herself upon her 
common sense ; but how many crimes are daily committed 
in the name of this quality ! Unless joined to the faculty 
of imagination, common sense is to be avoided rather than 
admired ; and in imagination Mrs. Fielding was strikingly 
deficient. She was unable to perceive the possibility of the 
existence of any other explanation of the circumstances 
just submitted to her than that which the facts occurring 
within her own knowledge suggested. 

When introduced to the reader, Mrs. Fielding was 
spoken of as a narrow-minded person, completely under 
the influence of her daughter Margaret ; and time had not 


MRS. ALDERGROVE UNDER A NEW ASPECT. 1 99 


changed her otherwise than to give her a small amount of 
independence, which was not by any means improving. 
Her limited vision rarely extended beyond her own experi- 
ence, or that of Margaret. What was not known or thought 
by either of them she did not ordinarily believe, and the 
mere suggestion of possible error on their part was enough 
to excite in her a spirit of active opposition. 

It has been observed by physiologists, that intense ego- 
tism is often connected with some physical weakness or 
deformity. Thus, for instance, those who are born blind, 
or deaf, or wanting in the proper number of limbs, are 
always more or less selfish and exacting. There is no 
doubt, also, that this disagreeable attribute is often devel- 
oped by celibacy. Mrs. Fielding was physically perfect, 
and she had not been a spinster when Mr. Fielding mar- 
ried her.; but she had been a widow, and this had doubtless 
much to do with her peculiar characteristics. It is true, 
that no mention was ever made to Mr. Fielding of the de- 
ceased Aldergrove ; but that is neither here nor there. 
The worthy man had lived but two years after his mar- 
riage ; and Mrs. Fielding’s second widowhood had, like 
the first, exerted a tendency toward the revolving of her 
thoughts about the pivot of her own personality. 

Of justice in the abstract she had no conception ; and 
law, in her estimation, was only a system which brought 
about certain wished-for results with the least possible 
trouble to society. 

She had always cultivated religion ; but with her the 
Kingdom of Heaven was to be “taken by violence,” and 
her prayers resembled demands and instructions to the 
Deity rather than supplications. Nothing to her was so 
agreeable as to contemplate the image of an avenging God 
always on the watch for sinners whose acts were to be 
rewarded with eternal punishment. It was peculiar, how- 
ever, that, into these reflections, her own nature and Mar- 


200 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


garet’s never entered. They stood apart from all mankind, 
subject to influences and inspirations which ordinary peo- 
ple cannot enjoy. 

As she sat looking moodily at the carpet, every feature 
rigid with determination, her heart grew as hardened as 
was Pharaoh’s at each new plague that afflicted Egypt. 
Again she resolved, that, come what might, she would not 
swerve from the course upon which she had entered. 
Margaret was away for the day ; but she had consulted her 
daughter about Richard some time ago, and had received 
advice and instructions from her. The boy was obstinate, 
and in time would be precisely like his sister Castaly, who 
was indeed a most trying person to live with. 

After a while Mrs. Fielding unclasped her hands with a 
sigh, and summoned her maid. 

“Where is Miss Fielding, Jane } ” she asked, as the ser- 
vant made her appearance. 

“Out, madam. In the grounds, I believe.” 

“Very well. Give me my hat and parasol, and I will 
walk about in the garden. It is too fine a day to remain 
indoors.” 

Jane obeyed ; and Mrs. Fielding, standing before the 
mirror of her dressing-table, looked long and earnestly at 
her sharp and angular features, with the air of a woman 
who fully believes she has some personal attractions. Then 
taking her gloves and parasol, she left the room, and walked 
across the hall to Richard’s door. She bent forward, and 
listened attentively. All was silent within. The corners 
of Mrs. Fielding’s mouth expanded in a smile of triumph ; 
and, gathering up the long train of her gown, she passed 
slowly down the broad staircase, and out of the house. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

CASTALY. 

“ D’oti vient qu’un boiteux ne nous irrite pas, et qu’iin esprit boiteux nous irrite? 
C’est d cause qu’un boiteux reconnait que nous allons droit, et qu’un esprit boiteux 
dit que c’est nous qui boitons. Sans cela nous en aurions plus de piti^ que de col^re.” 
— Pascal. 

To the most impartial observer, Silverbridge would never 
be a pretty place. He might possibly be induced to admit, 
that, from one or two points, the views were fine ; but his 
enthusiasm would hardly go beyond this acknowledgment. 
And, indeed, while contemplating the rows of irregular, 
ill-formed houses, separated by straggling, dusty roads, 
which composed the greater part of the village, one could 
not help feeling surprised at the odd fancy of the late Mr. 
Fielding, which had led him to select so unpicturesque a 
spot whereon to erect his handsome residence. 

However, he had seemed to enjoy himself thoroughly 
during his lifetime, and particularly after his second mar- 
riage. Neither pains nor money had been spared to make 
the country-seat, where he lived all the year round, attrac- 
tive ; and now that he had passed away from this world, 
leaving the establishment in sole charge of his widow, it 
mattered little in regard to its situation or surroundings. 
Mrs. Fielding, like many others, preferred personal com- 
fort to every thing else ; and, as she rarely went outside 
the grounds of her house, the village and the neighbors 

were to her of no consequence. Indeed, so far as she 

201 


202 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


and her daughter Margaret were concerned, they did not 
exist. They never paid any visits, and were quite satis- 
fied to lead a solitary life, the monotony of which was 
only broken by an occasional drive to church in a closed 
carriage. When there, a high-backed pew, curtained in 
the old-fashioned manner, effectually concealed them from 
the worshippers, who, recognizing their desire for retire- 
ment, scarcely noticed them. 

Margaret, or Miss Hericourt as she was now called, 
went sometimes to the city on a shopping expedition ; but 
generally she remained at home, shut up in her own room, 
or else seeking a retired part of the garden, where she 
could read or think undisturbed. She had little in com- 
mon with the other members of the family, Mrs. Fielding, 
of course, excepted. Castaly and she had been antagonis- 
tic from the beginning, and Richard disliked her on account 
of the deceit which his childish frankness seemed to detect 
on her face. But Margaret was happy in spite of these 
drawbacks. Did she not possess the perfect ease, the 
freedom from restraint, the luxury and the independence, 
which she had so craved in her earlier days } And, more- 
over, she well knew how to extract the best from every 
circumstance and incident. She had both receptive capa- 
city and executive ability, — two qualities not often found 
together ; and, consequently, life to her meant a great 
deal. Conscience, that dread and importunate spirit which 
constantly comes forward to pluck most of us by the sleeve, 
was unknown to Margaret ; for she was one of those envi- 
able people who are able to reconcile every act with their 
own sense of what is right. Desire with her meant in- 
spiration, and she could always regard her conduct with 
an amount of satisfaction and self-complacency that in 
itself was admirable. 

When Mrs. Fielding left the house, after having confined 
Richard in his room, she walked slowly down the broad 


CASTA L Y. 


203 


path which led to the lake. A feeling of sublime content 
filled her soul ; for she had done her duty, notwithstanding 
the pain it had cost her. Unconsciously, and with no idea 
of absurdity or exaggeration, she compared herself men- 
tally with some ancient hero. Did the contemplation, in 
fancy, of Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders, call 
up greater ideas of superiority than the thought of what 
she had just done? Surely not; and, in thinking of it, 
she drew herself up with dignity, and walked with increased 
stateliness. 

On the border of the lake was a tiny pavilion, covered 
from top to bottom with roses, which here and there forced 
themselves through the lattice-work, and filled the air with 
a delicious and penetrating fragrance. Within was a table 
of carved stone, piled high with books and writing mate- 
rials ; and seated before it was a young girl. Her elbows 
rested on the table, her hands were clasped beneath her 
chin ; and she looked dreamily, and perhaps sadly, out 
upon the water before her, where the sun’s golden spangles 
glittered in the light. She was a tall, slender girl of about 
fifteen, whose dark beauty was shown to advantage by a 
gown of simple white muslin, confined at the waist by 
a soft scarlet ribbon. 

As Mrs. Fielding’s commanding figure appeared sud- 
denly in the doorway, and obstructed the view of the lake, 
the girl rose instantly, and, with polite dignity, bade her 
enter. 

‘‘ What can you be about, Castaly ? ” asked the lady, 
accepting the invitation, and seating herself stiffly upon 
a stone chair. “What are you doing with all those 
papers ? ” 

“ I was writing.” 

“Indeed!” said Mrs. Fielding, nodding her head with 
affected approval. “ Upon what are you engaged at pres- 
ent, if I may be so bold as to ask ? A novel, or an epic 


204 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


poem ? Does it depict the woes of a modern Clarissa, 
the mad acts of a new Lothario, or the adventures of an 
American Ulysses ? My confidence in your genius is 
unbounded.” 

Castaly gathered together some sheets of manuscript 
which lay upon the table. “ It is nothing,” she said, 
coloring a little. 

“ What a substantial nothing ! ” said Mrs. Fielding 
calmly. “You must have forty pages there, at least. 
What is your definition of ‘nothing,’ Castaly.^” 

“ Cannot things be great in dimension, and yet noth- 
ing in — in other respects.^” asked Castaly, with some 
embarrassment. 

“ Possibly,” said Mrs. Fielding, with a tinge of sarcasm. 
“You are talking nonsense, as usual,” she added. “But 
it was not for the purpose of discussing your literary occu- 
pations that I came here, Castaly. I have some very pain- 
ful information for you. It has been my duty — my sad 
duty — to perform a most disagreeable and difficult task; 
but, with God’s help, I have accomplished it.” 

She fell back upon her chair as she uttered the last 
words, and sighed deeply. 

“ I do not understand you,” said Castaly, in some per- 
plexity. 

“It is about your unfortunate brother Richard,” Mrs. 
Fielding continued, in a monotone. “ I fear he is in great 
danger.” 

“ Dick in danger ! Why, what has happened } ” 

“I referred to his soul,” said Mrs. Fielding, with half- 
closed eyes. “His body is safe enough, but of what avail 
is the salvation of the body if the soul be lost } ” 

“I do not understand,” said Castaly again. 

“You mean you do not choose to understand,” said her 
step-mother coldly. “ However, as I do not wish to argue 
with you, I will come directly to the point. Your unhappy 


CASTAL Y. 


205 


brother, Castaly, has contracted a dreadful habit, — the 
habit of lying. And did I not use every means to break 
him of it, I should consider that I myself committed a sin. 
I resolved a short time ago, that, should he tell me another 
wilful falsehood, I would resort to harsher treatment than 
I have done hitherto. The occasion presented itself this 
morning. Richard came to me with some ridiculous story 
about a robber, whom he says he saw trying to enter the 
house during the night. I have reason to know that this 
could not possibly have occurred, and I have done all in 
my power to induce him to admit that he does not speak 
the truth. But neither argument nor persuasion has had 
any effect upon him. After much hesitation, therefore, 
and great inward conflict, I have been obliged to punish 
him severely.” 

Castaly’s face flushed. “What have you done to him } ” 
she asked, her voice trembling slightly. 

“ I have locked him up in his room, and limited his diet 
to bread and water.” Mrs. Fielding folded her hands com- 
placently as she said this, and looked from beneath her 
drooping eyelids at Castaly. 

“ Locked him up ! Limited his diet to bread and water ! 
My brother ! ” said Castaly, in a low, suppressed tone. 

“ Yes ; and there he shall stay until he confess the truth, 
or, rather, the untruth.” 

“ He shall not ! ” cried Castaly, with sudden passion. 

“What did you say ? ” inquired her step-mother, drawing 
herself up, and opening her eyes. 

“ I say you shall not treat him so,” exclaimed the girl, 
trembling with excitement. “ Listen, Mrs. Fielding, and 
I will prove to you that you have committed a wicked act. 
Yesterday afternoon,” she continued more quietly, “as 
I was walking home from the village, I met Dr. Greyson ; 
and I took the opportunity then of asking him about the 
peculiar stories Dick is in the habit of telling, thinking he 


206 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


might perhaps be able to explain them. He asked me 
many questions, and, when I had answered them, said there 
was no occasion to be worried about the boy, but on no 
account to punish him for not speaking the truth ; as chil- 
dren of his age often had dreams so vivid, that, on awaken- 
ing, they mistook them for reality. This, in his opinion, 
is Dick’s case. I meant to tell you about it this morning, 
but forgot it. Now, however, that you know it, you must 
let Dick out of his room at once.” 

‘^And, pray, what do I know.?” inquired Mrs. Fielding, 
not a muscle of her face changing. “ Do you suppose I put 
any faith in such nonsense as that .? An old fogy, like Dr. 
Greyson, is capable of saying any thing. But I am not one 
to be impressed by his theories and conjectures. I tell you 
plainly, Castaly, Richard shall not stir from that room until 
he says the story of the robber is false.” 

“ He shall,” said Castaly firmly. “ I will let him out 
myself.” 

“ I have the key in my pocket,” said Mrs. Fielding, wav- 
ing one hand triumphantly. 

Let us say no more about it,” said Castaly, with a sigh. 
“But I think you have treated my brother outrageously.” 

“Do not be impertinent, Castaly. Your manner to me 
is never pleasant, but sometimes you are past bearing with. 
So long as I am mistress of the house, and your brother 
subject to my control, I shall act as I think proper ; and 
no words of yours can make me falter in what I consider 
a matter of duty.” 

As she said this, Mrs. Fielding rose, and left the pa- 
vilion with an air denoting an injured and self-sacrificing 
spirit. 

When she had disappeared from view, Castaly took up 
her pen, and tried to collect her thoughts ; but her mind 
dwelt involuntarily upon the conversation which had just 
taken place, and upon her little brother, whom she could 


CASTAL Y. 


207 


see in imagination sobbing his heart out in solitary con- 
finement. 

“It is inhuman — unjust,” she said to herself; “and, 
when dinner is over, I shall let him out.” 

An hour later, when she returned to the house, she rang 
the bell, and sent for Mrs. Fielding’s maid. 

“Jane,” she said, trying to speak unconcernedly, “a 
walking-jacket was sent to me yesterday from the city, but 
it does not fit me. Would you like to have it } It is in 
the closet of my dressing-room.” 

The maid’s face flushed with pleasure. “O Miss 
Fielding ! ” she began. “ I’m sure ” — 

“ Never mind. But by the way, Jane, do you know 
where Master Richard is } ” 

“I heard Mrs. Fielding say. Miss, as how she’d locked 
him up, poor lamb, for telling a lie,” said Jane, in a tone 
of sympathy for which the jacket was doubtless respon- 
sible. 

“The reason I speak to you about it is because I am 
sure he is being punished unjustly,” said Castaly quickly. 
“ I intend to let him out this evening after dinner. You 
can help me, Jane, if you will.” 

“ Indeed, I will do any thing for you. Miss,” said Jane. 
“ Poor little fellow ! I’m sure he’s done no wrong.” 

“Mrs. Fielding has the key of the room in the pocket 
of her morning-gown,” said Castaly. “ When she changes 
her dress for dinner, I want you to get the key, and put it 
here on my toilet-table. Perhaps you had better wait until 
we go to dinner. Do you understand ” 

“Yes, Miss, I understand. But, if Mrs. Fielding finds 
me out, she’ll send me off without a character.” 

“ Leave that to me. I shall see that you do not suffer.” 

“Thank you, Miss,” said Jane; and Castaly turned 
away, as though anxious to end the conversation. 

When the servant had left the room, Castaly was some- 


2o8 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


what ashamed of herself. Her dignity, she felt, had been 
lowered in Jane’s eyes ; and her self-respect was conse- 
quently wounded. But there was no other way of liberat- 
ing Richard than the one she had just chosen. She did 
not venture near her brother’s door on her way down-stairs, 
and she made no reference to him during dinner. In fact, 
her manner to her step-mother and Margaret, who had re- 
turned, was so calm and gracious, that Mrs. Fielding con- 
cluded she had decided not to resist authority, and congrat- 
ulated herself that Richard would be dealt with in a 
proper manner. 

Never had the dinner seemed so long to Castaly as it 
did this evening. Course followed course with exasperat- 
ing slowness and regularity ; while Mrs. Fielding’s stiff, 
tiresome remarks, and Margaret’s cold rejoinders, grew 
momentarily more unendurable. Finally, however, Mrs. 
Fielding rose, and addressed the old butler. 

“James,” she asked solemnly, “did you take some bread 
and water to Master Richard } ” 

“Ay, madam ; but I could not open the door.” 

“ Did you knock so that he could hear you ? ” 

“Yes, and called loudly several times, madam. But 
he did not even answer me.” 

Mrs. Fielding smiled. “Very well,” she said, and, lean- 
ing on Margaret’s arm, passed on to the drawing-room. 

Castaly followed them, her heart bursting with indigna- 
tion. She stepped out upon the balcony, and looked at 
the sky, which was all ablaze with the summer sunset. 
There had never been any sympathy between her step- 
mother and herself ; and now, thought Castaly, the moment 
had come when an open rupture was imminent. She re- 
called the time when her mother had held Richard, a tiny 
baby, in her arms. Had not her whole heart seemed cen- 
tred upon this little child, whose innocent eyes looked 
so wonderingly into hers.? Tears rolled down Castaly’s 


CASTAL Y. 


209 


cheeks at the recollection ; and the sky suddenly became 
a confused mass of color, purple and scarlet and gold 
mingled incongruously together. She turned away in a 
few moments, and looked through the open window at Mrs. 
Fielding, who had seated herself on a stiff chair to read 
Baxter’s “ Call to the Unconverted while Margaret, with 
a newspaper in her hands, reclined in an easy-chair by the 
table. 

Castaly gazed steadily at them both, hesitated for a mo- 
ment, and then went softly through the room to the outer 
hall unnoticed. She ran hastily to the butler’s pantry, and, 
seizing a plate, filled it from some viands remaining from 
dinner which stood on a side-table. There was no light yet 
in the hall ; but she found her way up-stairs without diffi- 
culty, the plate tightly clasped in her hands. She groped 
among the articles on her toilet-table, and discovered the 
key, placed there by treacherous Jane ; then, stealing 
gently out again into the passage, she approached her 
brother’s door. 

“ Dick,” she whispered softly. 

There was no answer. 

Castaly smiled compassionately, and, putting the key 
into the lock, threw the door wide open. 

The room was in darkness; for the sun had set, and the 
blinds were tightly closed. 

“Dick,” said Castaly again, “dear little brother, it is I, 
Castaly.” 

She spoke in a low tone, but loud enough to be heard 
by any one in the room. Still no answer was forthcoming, 
and no sign of any presence except her own was visible. 

“Come, little rogue, where are you hiding.?” she asked, 
advancing a step. “See, I have brought you some dinner; 
and I am going to let you out of this room if you will.” 

Again silence reigned, and a certain nameless terror 
overcame Castaly. She ran hastily to the window, and 


210 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


threw the blinds wide open. The gray evening twilight 
penetrated the room, and a sudden rush of perfume came 
up from the garden. Castaly, trembling with nervous 
dread, turned from the window, and glanced quickly about 
her. The room was empty. 

A sensation of faintness crept over her ; but she caught 
firmly hold of the bureau, beside which she stood, and 
sought to steady her voice as she called once more, “Dick, 
my little brother, where are you ? ” 

The room grew darker and darker. Castaly closed her 
eyes, and her arms fell by her side. Then, rousing herself 
with a sudden effort, she rushed into the hall, and down- 
stairs to the drawing-room. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 

“Violent measures are always dangerous, but, when necessary, may then be looked 
upon as wise. They have, however, the advantage of never being a matter of indiffer- 
ence, and, when well concerted, must be decisive.” Lord Chesterfield. 

When Mrs. Fielding discovered that she and Margaret 
were alone, her book dropped from her hands, and, rising, 
she approached the table with dignified languor. 

What is the matter with you } ” she asked in a low 
tone. “You are not yourself this evening.” 

“ I feel tired : that is all,” answered Margaret. 

Mrs. Fielding drew a chair toward the table, and seated 
herself with deliberation. “Certainly,” she said, “you 
have nothing to feel unhappy about. You — both of us, in 
fact — have been singularly fortunate. But we deserve our 
prosperity ; for, in order to gain it, we have made many 
sacrifices. Can aught be had in this world without labor ? 
Nothing surely. But persistent striving in any direction 
must eventually be crowned with success. At least, that 
is our experience, is it not ? ” 

“Yes, we have, as you say, worked hard, sacrificed 
much, and gained in proportion.” 

“And yet,” continued Mrs. Fielding, “you have some- 
thing on your mind, I can see ; while I am burdened by 
the thought of these children, Castaly and Richard. They 
impose upon me duties from which, at my age, I should 
be free. The boy, particularly, is wicked and ungrateful. 

2II 


212 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


He has to-day given me a terrible example of his de- 
pravity, as I told you.” 

“You have acted properly in inflicting a severe punish- 
ment upon him,” said Margaret. “For all our acts fitting 
results are forthcoming. It has been fortunately so or- 
dained, otherwise we could never know or value experi- 
ence.” 

“When I married Mr. Fielding,” said her mother, “I 
think God exerted his special influence upon me. Do you 
remember, Margaret, when we crossed the plains together, 
what a disagreeable child, even then, Castaly seemed to 
be.?” 

“Hush!” said Margaret quickly. “You know I can- 
not bear to refer to that journey. Mother,” she added, 
leaning forward, and speaking in a whisper, “ I thought I 
saw Cordelia in New York to-day. Of course, it was a 
mistake. I had been thinking about her, and only fancied 
I saw her. But I have been unable to rid myself of the 
impression ever since.” 

“What has come over you of late, Margaret .? You are 
growing weak and nervous. I never thought I should 
have to incite you to think or act. You are not the same 
kind of girl you were five years ago. Then apprehension 
was unknown to you. It was I who sometimes was fear- 
ful, but you” — Mrs. Fielding made a contemptuous 
gesture. “ Cordelia is dead,” she said. “ Can the dead 
return to the world .? Can spirits come back to haunt us .? 
Let us have no more such foolish ideas as those you have 
just uttered.” 

“ I know it is unworthy of me,” said Margaret. “ We 
have no reason to be afraid. Cordelia is dead, beyond a 
doubt. I am Cordelia, in fact. The money is ours, and 
we have nothing to do but enjoy it now as we have done 
heretofore.” 

“ I have always thought how much better it was for us 


MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 


213 


to possess this fortune, than that it should have been 
put to the use originally intended by the Hericourts. 
It seemed almost a crime to enrich the Roman-Catholic 
Church at our expense, for we actually needed the money; 
while the priests and nuns, who expected to get it, were 
rolling in comparative wealth and luxury. That Padre 
Lament, for instance, would have claimed the greater part 
of it. I remember the interest he took in Cordelia ; and 
the interest of a priest such as he is seldom unselfish. 
He was arrogant besides, and egotistical. I can fancy 
him enjoying life with a large income and a well-stocked 
wine-cellar, preaching to his congregation on Sunday the 
Christian advantages of poverty. The world is small, 
Margaret ; and humanity resolves itself into half a dozen 
qualities, good and bad, which are equally distributed. 
And then,” she added after a pause, ‘'would not the order 
Cordelia meant to found have been an absurd and use- 
less waste of money I have no patience with such non- 
sense.” 

“I cannot help thinking,” said Margaret, speaking in a 
forced tone of gayety, “ of the king who burst into a fit of 
laughter on looking at a large stag, and exclaimed to his 
attendants, ‘ See how fat he is, and yet he has never 
heard mass ! ’ We are like this stag. We are not Catho- 
lics, but we have the money they hoped to get.” 

Mrs. Fielding made no answer, but she nodded thought- 
fully. 

“I wonder,” Margaret continued, “what has become of 
Padre Lament. He wanted the money for himself, no 
doubt.” 

“ I have said that he was always underhanded and de- 
ceitful,” said Mrs. Fielding. “He had old Miss Anastasia 
and Cordelia completely under his control ; and, after he 
left Santa Fe, Heaven knows what plans he concocted! 
But Cordelia is dead, and I suppose he could find no 


214 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


way of reaching us. God does well to remove those who 
are superfluous,” she added stiffly. 

“ The best are surely those who accomplish the most,” 
said Margaret languidly. She leaned back again in her 
chair, and played with the newspaper beside her. ‘'By 
marrying Mr. Fielding, mother, you gained a great deal,” 
she said, after a short silence. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Fielding. “God has guided us both 
with His benevolent and skilful hand. From the begin- 
ning He has watched over us, and shown us His special 
favor.” She spoke in her usual cold, severe tone. Margaret 
glanced at her with interest. 

“You have learned a great deal during the last few 
years,” she said. “ Or, rather, you have profited by much 
that I have taught you.” 

Mrs. Fielding smiled, for Margaret’s praise was always 
delightful to her. She smiled, and let her half-closed eyes 
wander about the room with a look of satisfaction. All 
that she had — all that she enjoyed — was the result of her 
own labor and Margaret’s ; and. for this reason she appre- 
ciated it. She roused herself presently to speak again to 
her daughter, but just then the drawing-room door was 
thrown suddenly open ; and Castaly, with a white face, 
and trembling with excitement, burst into the room. 

“ Dear me ! ” said Margaret, much annoyed, “ is that a 
proper way to come in, Castaly } ” Her back was toward 
the door, so that the girl’s expression was not seen by her. 

“What has happened.?” asked Mrs. Fielding. “Your 
behavior is both unbecoming and undignified.” 

“ Dick ” — gasped Castaly, not heeding the words of 
either. “ Where is he .? What have you done with him .? ” 
Her voice was so unsteady that her questions were hardly 
intelligible. 

“ Richard is in his room,” said Mrs. Fielding frigidly. 
“ Did we not discuss him and his punishment this morn- 


MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 


215 


ing ? There is no occasion for this ridiculous excitement, 
Castaly. Your brother is a bad boy, and his evil-doing 
has met with reward.” 

“ He is not in his room,” said Castaly, in a scarcely 
audible tone. “ I cannot find him. I unlocked the door, 
but he is not there. Where is he,- Mrs. Fielding } where 
is my brother ^ ” 

“Not in his room What do you mean .^ ” exclaimed 
Mrs. Fielding and Margaret in a breath. 

“ What have you done with Dick ? ” cried Castaly pit- 
eously. “ I got the key to let him out, but the room is 
empty.” 

“ Empty ! ” said Mrs. Fielding, her face growing a shade 
paler. “ Why, how can that be ? You must be dreaming.” 

“If the child was put there this morning, he must be 
there still,” said Margaret. “ Can he walk, like a ghost, 
through a closed door } But how came you to get the 
key, Castaly ? It was a dishonorable act if you took it 
from Mrs. Fielding’s room : it was stealing.” 

“Tell me where my brother is,” cried Castaly passion- 
ately. “ Did you suppose I would submit to see him un- 
justly punished.^ I told Mrs. Fielding I would let him 
out, and so I meant to do ; but he is not there. You have 
hidden him elsewhere. Take me to him, I beg of you.” 

Mrs. Fielding’s stolid face expressed as much conster- 
I nation as was possible. She was not accustomed to dis- 
play emotion ; but, at Castaly’s words, something like 
! alarm could be seen on her countenance. Margaret ap- 
I peared indifferent, as if the whole thing were an idle 
I story, unworthy of attention. 

“I do not believe you,” said Mrs. Fielding at last. 
“You are following in your brother’s footsteps. How 
terrible a misfortune to have two such forcible examples 
of depravity in a single family ! To begin with, how dared 
I you get the key ? You are a thief ! ” 

i 

I 

I 


2I6 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


Castaly’s white face flushed scarlet, and an angry reply 
rose to her lips; but she checked it. “I was justified in 
taking the key,” she said, “for I told you I would let 
Dick out. As to my not speaking the truth, come up- 
stairs with me, and you, too. Miss Hericourt. Look in 
Dick’s room, and see if you can find him. Come, come at 
once. He cannot be far away, but let us lose no time.” 

She left the room, Mrs. Fielding and Margaret following 
slowly. 

“ Where is the boy ? ” asked Margaret, in a whisper. 
“ Did you put him elsewhere, that Castaly might not find 
him ? Why do you not answer me } ” 

“ I do not know where he is,” said Mrs. Fielding finally, 
speaking with difificulty. “ I locked him up in his own 
room. If he is not there now, he must have got out by 
the window. I dare say he is hiding somewhere in the 
grounds.” 

As she uttered the last words, they reached Richard’s 
door. Castaly was already there, and had lighted the 
lamp. There was no closet in the room ; so the boy could 
hide nowhere except beneath the bed, or behind its volu- 
minous hangings of soft pink gauze. He was not there, 
however. Poor Castaly, her eyes dimmed by tears, peered 
into the darkness outside, where nothing was visible except 
a spot of brilliant light which streamed from the window 
upon the grass. She was unable to distinguish whether 
or not footprints had been made upon the bed of earth 
below. 

Mrs. Fielding and Margaret looked at each other signi- 
ficantly, knowing instinctively that Richard must have 
made his escape from the window, which was but one 
story from the ground. But, if so, whither had he 
gone .? 

“ It is very evident, Castaly,” said Mrs. Fielding, trying 
to assume a severe tone, “that your ungrateful brother, 


MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 


217 


not appreciating my earnest efforts in his behalf, has es- 
caped from the seclusion to which I confined him. He 
could only have done so by climbing out of that window. 
Possibly he has made his way to the stable ; for, much to 
my sorrow, I have lately noticed his habit of conversing 
familiarly with the grooms. At all events, he cannot be 
very far off. I shall have him looked for immediately; 
and, when he is found, he shall be punished again.” 

“There is but one way to deal with such headstrong 
children,” said Margaret ; “ and I hope, dear aunt, you 
will carry out your intentions strictly to the letter. I 
shall ring for James, and tell him to look for this trouble- 
some boy. His wayward tricks may cause us annoyance, 
but they cannot intimidate us.” She rang the bell, and 
gave orders that search should be made in the grounds for 
Master Richard. 

Castaly watched the two women with heaving breast, 
and eyes filled with tears. She felt how powerless she 
was to fight against them, and yet Richard must be pro- 
tected at any price. She seemed all at once to spring 
from childhood to a stern, womanly dignity, as marked 
as theirs, but which gave way suddenly in a burst of 
passionate anger. 

“ You shall not punish him again ! ” she cried excitedly. 
“ He is a child, and you are stronger than he ; but I am 
not a child. You have always been bad, wicked women. 
I hated you when first I saw you ; and, when my dream 
about you came true, I hated you the more. Many times 
I tried to tell papa about it, but he would not listen ; and 
finally it passed from my mind. Now I can recall it all. 
I was only a little thing when we crossed the plains to- 
gether ; but I watched you, and I can see you yet,” pointing 
to Margaret, “undo the strap of the curtain. I can see 
you bend over the lady who sat in the corner ; and I hear 
the loud creaking of the swinging-back, as it falls down. 


2i8 


A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE. 


and the cry of Mrs. Aldergrove as she is thrown backward, 
and strikes the ground. I remember too” — 

“ Good God ! ” almost shrieked Margaret, what are 
you saying } ” She had darted forward, and grasped Cas- 
taly’s arm. Her face had grown ashy pale, and her eyes 
were dilated with horror. 

An exclamation of alarm burst simultaneously from 
Mrs. Fielding, and she would have spoken had not a ges- 
ture from her daughter prevented her. There was a 
momentary silence. Castaly, observing the strange effect 
of her words, which had been spoken more in a spirit of 
anger than any thing else, was quick to take advantage 
of it. 

“ I thought it was a dream which had come partly true,” 
she said with flashing eyes. “But I believe now it all 
actually happened. The lady disappeared just as I 
dreamed she did ; only you said she fell out, while I ” — 

“Hush!” cried Margaret hoarsely. “Are you mad 
How dare you say such things to me ? How dare you 
repeat your silly dreams, and insult me with your absurd 
suspicions ? ” Her voice trembled, and her face was still 
deathly white. 

“ The morning after it occurred,” Castaly continued 
pitilessly, “ I thought I had dreamed I looked through a 
tiny hole in the buffalo-robe that had been hung up to 
serve as a partition, and that I saw you. Miss Hericourt, 
unfasten the back against which the lady was leaning. I 
tried to tell papa, but he said he did not want to hear my 
dream. By and by I forgot all about it, but it comes 
back to me now. It seems as if it happened but yester- 
day.” She still spoke with excitement ; but Margaret, in 
the meanwhile, had partly recovered herself. Her expres- 
sion now was one of cold contempt. She drew herself 
up as Castaly finished, and looked steadily at her without 
speaking. 


MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 


219 


“I see what it all means,” said Mrs. Fielding, with com- 
parative calmness. “You dream like your brother, only 
your dreams are rather more dangerous than his. I begin 
to think old Greyson’s theory contains some truth, for 
evidently you are the victim of a delusion. On this ground 
I can look with some lenity upon your preposterous con- 
duct and insulting language, for it is easy to see you are 
not yourself.” 

“ I labor under no delusion,” said Castaly ; “and I know 
that I saw you. Miss Hericourt leaned over and whis- 
pered to you, Mrs. Fielding, and you shook your head 
with apparent terror. Then, after a while, you covered 
your ears with both hands ; and Miss Hericourt, who was 
gazing at the lady in the corner, suddenly ” — 

“ Be silent ! ” cried Margaret, seizing Castaly’s wrist in 
so strong a grasp that the girl winced with pain. “You 
shall not utter another word.” 

“ Why are you so pale ? ” exclaimed Castaly. “ Why 
do you tremble, Miss Hericourt ? Of what are you 
afraid ? I can see that you are in dread of something. 
If it was only a dream, what does it matter to you .? ” 

“ Stop ! ” said Mrs. Fielding, holding up a white, trans- 
parent hand to the light. “ I hear footsteps. One of the 
servants is coming, so do not speak. Ah, James!” she 
added, as the old butler made his appearance, “ it is you. 
Have you found Master Richard ^ ” 

“No, madam. We have searched the grounds thor- 
oughly, and sent even to the village ; but Master Richard 
is not in the neighborhood.” 

Castaly’s face changed color, and involuntarily her eyes 
closed. She tried to speak, but Margaret’s cold tones 
interrupted her. 

“Let him take the consequences of his insubordina- 
tion,” she said. “ If he has run away, it will not be for 
long. He will come back again, never fear.” 


220 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE, 


Certainly he will,” said Mrs. Fielding austerely. I 
am not in the least alarmed about him. That will do, 
James. You can close the doors whenever you are ready. 
Come,” she added, addressing Margaret, when the old ser- 
vant had silently withdrawn, “ let us return to the draw- 
ing-room. We need repose after the dreadful scene to 
which this ungrateful girl has subjected us.” 

‘‘Richard shall be found — he must be found,” said Cas- 
taly. “ I am not afraid of you ; but, by your faces, I can 
see that you fear something. O Dick, Dick ! my little 
brother, where are you } ” She ran from the room ; and 
the two women heard her voice in the distance, and her 
pitiful sobs, as she repeated, “ Come to me, Dick. Come 
to Castaly.” 

They remained standing in Richard’s room, and for a 
few seconds neither spoke. The lamplight flickered, and 
threatened to go out. Mrs. Fielding clung to Margaret 
with a look of questioning terror. “What shall we do?” 
she whispered. “She suspects, — she knows.” 

“ She cannot harm us,” said Margaret, trying to speak 
boldly. “If we can prove that she dreams, — that both 
she and Richard are subject to these strange fancies, — we 
are quite safe. She is half in doubt herself. Did you not 
see that she spoke from excitement and anger? For a 
moment I forgot myself, it was so sudden ; but I am pre- 
pared now for the worst she can do or say. Come, let us 
go. This room is uncomfortable.” 

She shuddered, although the warm summer air came 
pouring in through the window. The lamplight trembled 
again, and the slow wafting of the gauze curtains about 
the bed cast weird shadows on the wall. 

Mrs. Fielding glanced nervously over her shoulder at 
the waving reflections, and clasped Margaret’s arm still 
tighter. 

“Yes,” she whispered, “it is uncomfortable; for there 


MOTHER AND DAUGHTER, 


221 


are phantoms here. But they can do us no harm, Marga- 
ret.” She laughed harshly. “ The affair has its ridicu- 
lous side,” she added. Can you not see it ? ” 

Margaret made no answer. She drew Mrs. Fielding 
presently from the room ; and, like grim spectres them- 
selves, they crept slowly down the marble staircase. 

A moment later the flickering lamplight expired, and a 
gust of wind swept the rose-colored curtains high in the 
air. Then all was still and silent. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


PROFESSOR HOVEDEN IS TROUBLED AGAIN. 

“ I am unwilling to doubt thy veracity, yet inconsistencies cannot both be true.” 

“ Inconsistencies,” answered Imlac, “ cannot both be right; but, imputed to man, 
they may both be true.” — Rasselas. 

In every large city, even in New York as it existed 
twenty years ago, it is only the student of mankind, bent 
on searching the human brain and heart, or else the man 
of leisure who may likewise be an observer, who stops 
now and then to cast a glance at the scenes passing around 
him. How many thousands live and die without having 
noted the incongruous mixture of tragedy and comedy 
which is enacting at a stone’s-throw, — without, indeed, be- 
ing aware of its existence ! And yet, into every life, be it 
great or small, some portion of both must enter, meeting 
the individual with a light and delicate touch, or else pene- 
trating him so deeply, that his personality seems lost. 
Then, indeed, except through the medium of ceaseless 
action, he is powerless to escape ; and to the unbroken 
regularity of movement in cities we may perhaps attribute, 
not a desire to cultivate thought, but rather one to avoid it. 
Business, that great incentive to constant activity, is the 
mainspring by which humanity moves ; and it must be 
kept in repair at the risk of losing every thing else. Art, 
literature, and science are visible also ; but they represent 
merely the jewels in the clock-work which are put there 
for ornament only. Take them away, and the machinery 
222 


PROFESSOR HOVE DEN IS TROUBLED AGAIN 223 

will move as before ; but since they are beautiful let them 
remain, and once in a while we will look at them. 

And now come with me, on this gray December after- 
noon, and watch the hurrying crowd of human beings which 
throngs the down-town thoroughfares of New-York City, 
and you will be unable to repress a feeling of sadness. 
See, appearing one after the other in quick succession, how 
great a number of faces, strong in feature, noble in pro- 
portion and outline, evincing intellectual possibilities of a 
high order, and yet marked mostly by lines which no 
purely intellectual effort has called forth. What thin, 
stooping, angular figures accompany many of these faces ! 
They are typical in themselves, and purely American. 
Perchance these men have spent night after night in por- 
ing over some dusty volumes, eagerly seeking knowledge 
at the expense of health and strength. No : they are not 
students. They have no time to read : scientific discov- 
eries interest them but little, because they are little under- 
stood. Art is an enigma, for the solving of which life is 
not long enough. Their energies, therefore, expended in 
one direction only, leave vast fields dry and uncultivated. 
Sometimes the thought of this forgotten ground intrudes 
itself, and stands up to claim attention, like a beggar in 
rags who asks for alms ; but, alas ! there is often no vitality 
left with which to satisfy this demand, or else the ground 
itself is found to be so overgrown with weeds that nothing 
can be done with it. 

There may be some wisdom in all this which we are not 
quick enough to perceive. Success in life depends upon the 
particular, not the universal ; and he who would become 
aught must early learn this truth, lest he become the victim 
of circumstances or mistakes, which time, instead of recti- 
fying, only marks with broader and deeper lines. 

Glance at those figures moving up town in a steady 
stream, with a well-defined ebb and flow. How they jostle 


224 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


one another in their haste ! There is a murmur of quick, 
nervous tones, low and not unmelodious, accompanied by 
the roar and bustle of carts and vehicles that occupy the 
space between the sidewalks. Sparsely mingled with the 
masculine throng are a few women, some going down town, 
laden with parcels, in the direction of the ferries ; and others 
walking up the street, and seemingly forming a part of the 
manly business element. These womanly features, too, are 
worn with the fatigue of a day’s work ; and sometimes one, 
weary with disappointment rather than labor, makes its 
appearance, and regards the others enviously. 

On this gray December afternoon, when the lights began 
to throw their first pale-yellow rays from the shop-windows 
to the street, the tall figure of a girl walked slowly up 
Broadv^ay from the lower part of the city. The peculiar 
grace and dignity of her bearing would doubtless have 
attracted attention anywhere except in this multitude of 
hurrying forms, where the thoughts of each person seemed 
riveted upon himself to the exelusion of all else. She was 
well dressed, without displaying any pretensions to fashion 
or elegance. Her plain black gown and tight-fitting jacket 
moulded a form that was almost perfect ; but, had she been 
in tatters, the air of unconscious superiority which ema- 
nated from her at every movement would have proclaimed 
her to be more than ordinary. 

She noticed those about her as little as they did her. 
Evidently her mind was fixed upon serious thoughts ; for 
now and then a slight frown would appear upon her fore- 
head, and a troubled look come into her eyes. Once only 
she stopped ; and her gaze rose from the gathering gloom 
of the street, through which now and then the glare of a 
lamp sent a brilliant light, to the cold, leaden sky above, 
whence a few snow-flakes began to fall. Then she re- 
sumed her slow walk, plunged again in deep reflection. 
Some of the snow-flakes fell upon her shoulders and bosom 


PROFESSOR IIOVEDEN IS TROUBLED AGAIN, 225 


and hair, touching each lightly, and soon melting with the 
warmth. She did not observe the figure of a man who 
passed by, looked at her with surprise from behind his 
gold-rimmed spectacles, and presently, turning, came close 
beside her. 

He was a tall, well-built man of about forty-five, whose 
face was unusually kind and intelligent. There was a cer- 
tain picturesque negligence about his dress, and in his 
long hair, which was striking because uncommon, and 
pleasing because it suited his personality. 

“Pardon me,” he said, addressing the girl, “but are you 
not Miss Aldergrove, or perhaps Miss Hericourt.^” 

“ I am Cordelia H^ricourt,” said the girl, her grave ex- 
pression giving way to a frank smile; “and you, I think, 
are Professor Hoveden. I recollect you, although I saw 
you but once in Santa Fe.” 

“ I knew it was either you or your cousin,” said the Pro- 
fessor with a puzzled look ; “ and yet in each case it seemed 
odd. When I last saw you, you were on your way to 
Europe to remain for some time ; and I supposed Miss 
Aldergrove to be still in Santa Fe.” 

“You make a strange error, and yet a natural one,” said 
Cordelia, as they walked together side by side. “You 
confound me with Miss Aldergrove. It was she with 
whom you crossed the plains, and not I. You sent me a 
letter, you remember, announcing the disappearance of 
Mrs. Aldergrove; and you addressed the envelope to her 
daughter, who in reality was with you all the time. The 
mistake seemed very mysterious to me.” 

“ Eh ! what } ” exclaimed the Professor, his face chan- 
ging in color and expression. “Miss Aldergrove— with 
us — you” — He checked himself abruptly, and sought 
to command his voice. “I beg your pardon. Miss Heri- 
court,” he went on more calmly. “Of course, you are 
right, and I am wrong. I hope you will overlook my 


226 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE, 


Stupidity. You and your cousin are so much alike, be- 
sides ” — 

He could say no more. Cordelia Hericourt, and yet 
not the one who had crossed the prairie with him ! The 
ground appeared to give way beneath his feet, and the 
objects in the street danced before his eyes. He felt 
suffocating ; although the sharp winter air blew upon his 
face, and the snow-flakes fell on him with an icy touch. 
Cordelia, unable to understand his singular excitement, 
looked at him in vague amazement. 

“ How odd,” she said, “ that you should have made such 
a mistake, Professor Hoveden ! But what is the matter } 
You look ill.” 

‘‘ Nothing — nothing, of course,” he replied hastily. “ A 
recollection possibly. I can never refer to that journey 
without thinking of the terrible fate of Mrs. Aldergrove. 
Were you not horrified on hearing of it ? ” 

“Yes: it was dreadful, indeed, but not a great sorrow 
to me. I hardly knew my cousin.” 

“No doubt — very likely,” said the Professor incoher- 
ently. “But I must delay you no longer here in the 
cold, Miss Hericourt. If you will kindly give me your 
address, however, I shall be glad to call upon you this 
evening with my wife. She has often heard of you.” 

“ How kind you are ! ” said Cordelia, taking a card from 
her pocket, and handing it to him. “ To tell the truth, I 
have wanted to seek you out for some time ; but various 
things have prevented.” 

“ That was wrong, very wrong,” said the Professor. “ I 
knew your father well, and you should have acquainted 
me with your arrival here. But we will forget this neg- 
ligence, Miss Hericourt, since I am fortunate enough to 
have met you.” 

Cordelia thanked him, as he bowed rather awkwardly, 
and turned away to resume his rapid walk in the opposite 


PROFESSOR HOVEDEN IS TROUBLED AGAIN. 22 / 


direction. A certain feeling of relief overcame her. Here 
was a man who would interest himself in her, and give her 
what she so sorely needed, — the benefit of his experience. 
He had known her father, and treated her aunt and cousins, 
during their long journey together, with kindness and con- 
sideration. Besides this, her meeting with him was agree- 
able from another point. She had now been in New York 
for several months, vainly seeking employment. The little 
money she had was barely sufficient for her needs ; and, 
for the first time, she began to realize what it is to be in 
a great city alone and friendless. On several occasions, 
as she had told the Professor, she had been inclined to 
communicate with him, but had been restrained from so 
doing, partly by pride, and partly by that repugnance 
to ask assistance which an independent nature such as 
hers always feels. 

She went home with a lighter step and a more hopeful 
expression. The little room which she occupied, in an up- 
town side-street, was small and ill furnished ; but as she 
entered it, and lighted the gas with her slender, neatly 
gloved hands, it seemed all at once to possess a unique 
charm of its own. A plain bedstead stood in one corner ; 
and the chairs and dressing-bureau were neither handsome, 
nor especially adapted to use. But the curtains, of some 
heavy crimson material, gave a broad dash of vivid warmth 
to the colorless apartment ; and here and there were strewn 
some bits of embroidery, wrought by Cordelia herself, and 
forming many-hued patches of light, like the reflections 
cast by the sun shining through a window of stained glass. 

Unpretending as it all was, she could not help contrast- 
ing it with the chill gloom of Our Lady of Guadaloupe, 
where the brightness and glow from without never seemed 
to penetrate, and where every object looked frozen and 
shapeless. 

Cordelia was not sorry to be alone, for with her solitary 


228 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


life came absolute freedom. But of late gray shadows 
had begun to creep about her, their sombre outlines grow- 
ing less and less distinct until they somehow merged them- 
selves with herself. She remembered how confidently she 
had spoken to the Superior in regard to earning her own 
living; and she smiled mournfully now, looking at the 
small white hands, which, as yet, had done nothing. It 
was not easy, after all, to find work for them. The appli- 
cants for employment far exceeded the demands for ser- 
vices ; and so, although she had striven much, Cordelia 
found herself precisely where she had been in the begin- 
ning. 

And, all the while, not a line from Miss Hericourt or 
Margaret. 

Cordelia had observed the Professor’s strange manner 
when he spoke to her ; but, knowing him but slightly, she 
thought little of it. Perhaps he was always perplexed 
and incoherent. He was scientific, an expounder of geol- 
ogy in a prominent college ; and with this thought sprang 
up a host of minor conceptions. 

As for the Professor himself, he went home hardly con- 
scious of whether he were walking, or being borne along 
in the air by some unseen power. The people and vehicles 
in the street moved before him in a strange, confused mass ; 
and he appeared to be the only distinct object among them. 

“ Miss Hericourt — Cordelia Hericourt ” — he repeated 
over and over again mechanically. “ Can it be possible ? ” 

He reached his home, — he knew not how, — and, open- 
ing the drawing-room door, entered his wife’s presence. 

Mrs. Hoveden, a stout, kindly-faced woman, sat reading 
by the light which fell from a large lamp on the table. 
She wore a black silk gown ; and her dark hair hung in 
ringlets on each side of her head, while, behind, it was 
gathered into a knot, and fastened by a silver comb. As 
her L usband came into the room, she raised her eyes, and 


PROFESSOR IIOVEDEN IS TROUBLED AG AIM. 229 

greeted him with a smile ; but her expression changed as 
she noted his face, and saw him throw himself silently 
into a chair, with a deep sigh. 

‘‘What has happened.^” she asked, letting the book slip 
from her hand to the floor. “ The students again ” 

“No, no — nothing of that kind,” he answered, staring 
moodily at the fire, and shaking his head abstractedly. 

“But something has occurred,” persisted his wife anx- 
iously. “ Why do you look so strange } ” 

“I have seen Cordelia Hericourt,” said the Professor 
slowly and distinctly. 

“ Cordelia Hericourt ! Why, who is she } Ah, yes ! I 
remember now. Were not the Hericourts the people with 
whom you crossed the plains about a year ago } ” 

“ The same,” said the Professor, nodding again. 

“I see nothing extraordinary in your having met one 
of them,” said his wife, a little’ indignantly. 

“Ah! but I do,” said the Professor, — “the most ex- 
traordinary thing that ever happened to me. Look here,” 
he burst forth suddenly, sitting upright: “you see, there 
were two, — two cousins in Santa Fe, — four cousins, in 
fact ; and they were as much alike as two — as four ” — 
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Hoveden, with a slight 
gesture of impatience. “Can you not be a little more 
explicit, my dear } What do you mean by two and four } ” 
“There was old Miss Hericourt, the Major’s sister,” 
the Professor began again, “ and his daughter. Miss Cor- 
delia Hericourt : then there were two cousins, Mrs. Alder- 
grove and Miss Margaret Aldergrove.” He indicated, with 
solemn precision, each one on his fingers. “ Now,” he 
continued, “Miss Hericourt and Mrs. Aldergrove looked 
very much alike ; while the two younger ladies equally 
resembled each other. P'or my part, I never knew which 
were Hericourts, and which Aldergroves. But here comes 
the strange part of the story. The two Hericourts and 


230 


A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE. 


Mrs. Aldergrove crossed the plains in the stage with me, 
leaving Miss Aldergrove in Santa Fe. During the jour- 
ney Mrs. Aldergrove disappeared in the most remarkable 
manner. I told you the circumstances on my return.” 

“Yes: I recollect all about it. It was very horrible, 
and, at the same time, peculiar.” 

“I wrote a letter to Miss Aldergrove from Independ- 
ence, informing her of what had occurred. I was re- 
quested to do so by the ladies, who declared they lacked 
the strength required for so hard a task. Now, listen to 
me, Maria. There is some dreadful mystery in all this, 
and I will tell you why. I met Cordelia Hericourt in the 
street not an hour ago. I was in doubt, at first, whether 
it were she or her cousin ; but she assured me her name 
was Hericourt, and expressed great surprise when I men- 
tioned the journey across the plains in connection with 
her. *It was Margaret who accompanied you,’ she said, 
* not I. And why did you write me a letter addressed to 
Miss Aldergrove.^’ What do you think of that, Maria.? 
I can’t describe to you what I felt, but it was something 
horrible.” 

“It is strange, certainly,” said Mrs. Hoveden ; “but 
why should you feel horrible .? ” 

“Ah! it is along story, and I always doubted them,” 
answered the Professor vaguely. He was thinking of the 
handkerchief he had picked up on the road long ago. He 
had put it carefully away when he came home, and had 
almost forgotten it ; but he remembered it now with a shud- 
der. A thousand indefinite suspicions flashed through his 
mind like lightning. He saw, in imagination, the small 
square of black-bordered cambric, with the owner’s name 
written in one corner. He saw also the faces of the two 
women, the expressions of which he had interpreted as 
being of fear rather than of grief. Many other incidents, 
which at the time had been nothing in themselves, now 


PROFESSOR HOVEDEN IS TROUBLED AGAIN. 23 1 

occurred to him with peculiar significance. He sank into 
a revery of pained recollection, from which his wife’s voice 
suddenly roused him. 

“ I dare say it could be easily explained,” she said. “ I 
remember you told me the ladies wore veils all the while ; 
and, being so much alike, it is possible that you mistook 
one for the other.” 

The Professor hesitated, wondering whether it would be 
advisable or not to take her into his confidence. 

‘‘Perhaps so,” he said presently. “But you can ima- 
gine how this unexpected meeting startled me. They all 
seem to have changed places somehow. But, of course, 
the mistake must be mine.” 

“It has affected you strangely,” said Mrs. Hoveden. 
“I can see that. It shows with what force impressions 
very often take hold of us. What sort of person is this 
Miss Hericourt "i ” 

“ Oh, I do not know ! A good-looking girl, I suppose. 
She is quite alone here, Maria : she has apparently no 
friends, and I should like to show her some attention for 
her father’s sake. When I thought I was travelling with 
her, she never raised her veil, and hardly spoke, — that is 
to say. Miss Aldergrove did so. But this one, the real 
Miss Hericourt, is quite different. She is probably, too, 
in need of advice or assistance of some kind. I told her 
we would call upon her this evening.” 

“To be sure,” said Mrs. Hoveden readily. “Poor girl ! 
It is sad to be alone in a large city like this. Are not her 
relatives coming back } ” 

“ I do not know. I never inquired. But come : dinner 
is on the table, and I am glad of it. ^ A glass of wine will 
do me good.” 

The Professor rose, and walked into the adjoining room ; 
while Mrs. Hoveden, as she followed, looked at him in a 
manner half doubtful, half anxious. Twice during the 


232 


A RIGHTEOVS APOSTATE. 


meal, when she spoke to him about some trifling matter, 
he did not hear her. His ood was untasted, and he sat 
staring dreamily at the bui ling logs on the hearth. Once, 
as he gazed, he fancied he saw the face of the lost Mrs. 
Aldergrove, wreathed in flame, and contorted with an ex- 
pression of mockery, in which a trace of sadness lingered. 
“I am Miss Hericourt,” it seemed to say, “not Mrs. 
Aldergrove ! ” And as the firelight shot up in a purple 
blaze, twisting itself in a hundred fantastic curves, the 
words, “ Miss Hericourt,” appeared to be written therein, 
with vivid colors of red and yellow, and also to twine 
themselves like serpents around the weird face in the 
centre. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

CORDELIA TELLS HER STORY. 

“ Conceal not your secret from your friend, or you deserve to lose him.” 

It was almost nine o’clock when the Hovedens reached 
the house in which Cordelia lived. The walk thither in 
the bleak night air cooled the Professor’s heated forehead, 
and reduced him to a calmer mood. Still, his mind was 
filled with but one thought, upon which he pondered per- 
sistently. He felt that he stood face to face with some- 
thing indefinite and intangible, which his own perseverance 
might convert into reality : and he resolved, that, during 
his coming interview with Cordelia, he would note care- 
fully her every word, gesture, and expression ; for much 
therein might aid him. He was naturally a close observer; 
and, now that he had an object in view, he intended to be 
doubly so. 

When she entered the small drawing-room, in which he 
and his wife were seated, he greeted her kindly ; but ac- 
companying his words was a keen look of inquiry, that 
apparently sought something, the existence of which had 
been hitherto doubted. The m.oment she spoke, however, 
a sudden change came over his features. The voices of 
those about him always impressed him forcibly ; but, in 
the surprise of meeting Cordelia that afternoon, he had 
not noticed hers particularly. It was the fancied change 

233 


234 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


in a voice which had led to his first suspicion of the sup- 
posed Miss Hericourt, and again he looked narrowly at 
the girl. She was making some trifling remark to Mrs. 
Hoveden, whose kind, gracious manner had made her feel 
for the first time that something was lacking in her soli- 
tary life. The Professor listened attentively, and the 
blood rushed to his face. 

“No,” he thought, “it is not she. This is not the girl 
who crossed the plains with me.” For an instant he 
almost feared he would shout aloud the words which 
seemed to ring in his brain in a thousand varied tones. 
He made, therefore, a hasty effort to command his voice 
and expression as he said quickly, — 

“You are, indeed, startlingly like your cousin. Miss 
Hericourt. But I think I can detect one or two differ- 
ences between you. Your voice is softer and more sym- 
pathetic than hers ; and, although you are both dignified, 
your dignity is of another kind, partaking rather of gen- 
tleness than haughtiness. Pardon me for speaking so 
plainly, but I observe such little distinctions minutely.” 

Cordelia smiled. “ There are differences between us, I 
know,” she said. “But whether or not they are to my 
advantage is a matter of taste. People who are not close 
observers rarely detect them. But Margaret has one 
peculiarity from which I am free. There is a brown 
freckle on her neck, close to her hair. See, I have none.” 

She bent forward, still smiling, toward Mrs. Hoveden. 

“Ah, indeed!” exclaimed the Professor with anima- 
tion. “ So Miss Aldergrove has a freckle on her neck I ” 
He recovered himself at an astonished glance from his 
wife. 

“ Why, how strange you are. Professor I ” she said re- 
provingly. “ What can it possibly matter to you whether 
she has, or not. ^ You startled him this afternoon. Miss 
Hericourt, by your unexpected appearance. He mistook 


CORDELIA TELLS HER STORY. 235 

you for your cousin, and could hardly believe it was not 
she.” 

‘‘It was a natural mistake,” said Cordelia; “but I must 
begin now to talk seriously to you. Professor Hoveden. 
I heard from Taylor, the stage-driver, about Mrs. Alder- 
grove’s disappearance ; but there are other things v^rhich 
I should like to learn. Were my aunt and cousins much 
alone during the journey .!* Did they mix to any extent 
with the other passengers } ” 

“They hardly spoke to us,” said the Professor, “and that 
perhaps is one reason why I confounded the names. They 
expressed a desire to be entirely alone, so the portion of 
the stage occupied by them was partitioned off from the 
rest. Whenever we stopped, they went into their own 
tent, and remained there until it was time to start again.” 

Cordelia did not reply at once, but she appeared to be 
thinking intently. She raised her eyes presently, and 
looked at the Professor. “ I ought to tell you something 
of myself,” she said. “You are astonished, doubtless, to 
find me in New York alone. I do not wonder,” she added, 
as he bowed assent, “ for it is as great a surprise to me 
as to you.” 

“Your aunt’s return has possibly been delayed by the 
formation abroad of other plans,” suggested Mrs. Hoveden. 

“ I will tell you the whole story if you care to hear it,” 
said Cordelia. “It is a strange one.” She paused for a 
moment, and then added, “Your interest inspires me with 
more confidence than I have felt for a long time. You 
know. Professor, when my father died, he did not leave 
my aunt and me well off ; but, by one of those peculiar 
circumstances which we call providential, a relative in 
France announced to us just then that we were the pos- 
sessors of a large sum of money which for many years 
was supposed to be lost. This money was my father’s 
and mine ; but, he being dead, my aunt became his heir. 


236 A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 

Neither of us ever cared for what are termed the pleas- 
ures of life, and we are devout Roman Catholics. It had 
long been my wish to found a religious order which would 
help to educate the ignorant New-Mexican girls, for it 
seemed to me so much might be done which hitherto had 
never been attempted for want of proper means. When 
I knew, therefore, the money was mine, and that my dream 
might be realized, you can imagine my delight. I took 
my aunt into my confidence, and she resolved to devote a 
portion of her share of the fortune to the contemplated 
work.” Cordelia smiled a little mournfully at the recol- 
lection of her hopeful enthusiasm. “ Of course,” she con- 
tinued, “it was necessary for us to go to France to get 
this money. Every pleasure has its disagreeable side. 
Pain, in fact, is inseparable from enjoyment, is it not ? 
But no real pain has its agreeable side.” She seemed to 
be speaking half to herself. 

“ Such words as those might be expected from a man of 
my age,” said the Professor ; “but in a girl like you ” — 

“Ah !” interrupted Cordelia, “every circumstance which 
has surrounded me since my father’s death has been a 
lesson dearly learned. I am beginning to grow cynical, 
I fear. But let me go on with my story, lest I weary you. 
It was arranged that my aunt and I should go to France ; 
but, just as the plan was conceived, I fell dangerously ill. 
For days my mind wandered ; and, when finally it returned 
to me, I found myself an inmate of the convent of Our 
Lady of Guadaloupe. Our confessor, Padre Lament, told 
me my aunt had gone to France, accompanied by my cou- 
sins, who intended to make a tour of the Continent.” 

“Poor child!” said Mrs. Hoveden, bending forward, with 
ready sympathy, to clasp Cordelia’s hand. “ How could 
they leave you alone and ill among strangers } It is hor- 
rible to think of. Were you not disgusted and distressed 
at their conduct ? ” 


CORDELIA TELLS HER STORY. 


237 


‘‘Hardly,” Cordelia replied, with a faint smile. “I 
thought their behavior odd, of course ; but, as I knew my 
cousins very slightly, their going abroad mattered little to 
me. My aunt’s departure surprised more than it grieved 
me. She is not mentally strong. I do not mean that she 
lacks ordinary intelligence, but it has always been a neces- 
sity with her to depend upon some one else. Opinions 
she has none, and impulse is unknown to her. It aston- 
ished me greatly, therefore, to hear she had undertaken 
the journey partly alone, and for a purpose that required 
much judgment and self-reliance. She rarely, even to me, 
displayed either sentiment or affection. Her interest was 
of the kind which is egotistical on account of its depend- 
ence. She was constantly coming to me for advice, and 
never failed to accept my views. I am inclined to think, 
however, that the views of any other person would have 
satisfied her as well.” 

“ Then, she was easily influenced and led } ” said the 
Professor interrogatively. 

“Yes. Any strong will could command her. I have 
heard her change her mind a dozen times in a day. She 
usually agreed with the person with whom she talked.” 
Cordelia paused, as if her thoughts dwelt upon some past 
event. 

“A peculiar character, certainly,” the Professor said 
presently, “but one that doubtless is common enough. 
Pray go on. Miss Hericourt. Your story is extremely 
interesting.” He spoke in a quick, nervous tone; and, 
had Cordelia observed his face intently, she would have 
seen upon it a look of eager expectancy. 

“I recovered my strength gradually,” she continued. 
“ The Superior of the convent, and the sisters, were kind 
to me ; and for a time I lived a quiet, peaceful life in Santa 
Fe, waiting patiently for news from France. One night 
Taylor, the driver, came to see me. He brought your 


238 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


letter, and gave me the particulars of the accident which 
had occurred. The letter was addressed to Miss Alder- 
grove; and Taylor, it seemed, had inquired in vain for such 
a person in the city. Finally, some one remembered the 
Aldergroves were related to Major Hericourt, and that a 
member of his family was then at the convent. Taylor 
came there at once, and found me ; but it was by a mere 
chance that he succeeded in so doing. I understood, how- 
ever, Professor, that in a fit of absent-mindedness, or prob- 
able haste, you substituted one name for the other.’* 

*‘Yes, yes: I wrote hurriedly. It was a stupid, unpar- 
donable mistake,” said the Professor, in some confusion. 

“ Time went on, but I heard nothing from my aunt or 
my cousin Margaret,” Cordelia continued. “ Finally, be- 
coming uneasy, I wrote, by the Superior’s advice, to the 
Bishop of Avignon, to whom letters and photographs had 
been sent for our identification, and inquired if Miss Heri- 
court had claimed the fortune. I received a reply, stating 
that the money had been given to her long ago, and that 
she had satisfactorily explained the absence of her niece.” 

“ Good heavens ! ” exclaimed the Professor vehemently. 
“ The money had been given to her, you say } ” His face 
was quite pale, and his eyes had in them an expression of 
combined horror and amazement. 

“ Yes : is it not extraordinary My aunt must have the 
money ; but she has never written to me, nor has she sent 
me my share. It has been a terrible disappointment to 
me, not on my own account, but because it has destroyed 
all my expectations of doing good, and elevating myself 
and others in the way I had intended. Besides this, I am 
anxious on my aunt’s account. As I have said, there was 
never any strong affection between us ; but I know how 
little fitted she is, either to manage a fortune or to live 
alone.” 

‘‘But what do you think can have happened?” the 


CORDELIA TELLS HER STORY. 


239 


Professor exclaimed, removing his glasses, and wiping 
them carefully with his handkerchief. “ Where can Miss 
Hericourt be "i ” His voice again betrayed his excitement ; 
for he was thinking of the little square of black-bordered 
cambric, with its owner’s name written in one corner. 

“ It is, indeed, a wonderful story,” said Mrs. Hoveden 
thoughtfully. “ Did you ever hear either of the ladies men- 
tion this fortune } ” she asked, turning to her husband. 

“ Never,” he answered promptly. “ I think I only spoke 
to Miss Hericourt on three or four occasions, and to the 
others only on the day when Mrs. Aldergrove disappeared. 
They had little need of my services, and preferred being 
alone.” 

‘‘What is your opinion. Professor Hoveden.?” Cordelia 
inquired earnestly. “ I should be glad to know it, and to 
act upon your advice.” 

The Professor hesitated. What should he say ? 

As Cordelia progressed in her story, the whole horrible 
truth, hitherto but vaguely suspected, had burst upon him 
with the utmost force. The mention of the fortune had 
been like a flash of vivid light thrown suddenly into some 
obscure corner, and illuminating, not only it, but the sur- 
roundings also. It was all as clear in his own mind as if 
he had actually seen the deed which had been committed 
in the rear of the stage-coach, — as if he, like little Castaly 
Fielding, had peered through an opening in the buffalo- 
robe, and witnessed the terrible act wrought by Margaret’s 
hands. The silence in regard to the money, the absence 
of any news from Miss Hericourt or Miss Aldergrove, 
the non-arrival of Cordelia’s share of the wealth, were so 
many facts which burst suddenly forth, endowed with a 
double significance. It was as much as he could do to 
avoid starting up, and exclaiming, “Your aunt is lost, 
perhaps dead ; and the Aldergroves have stolen your 
money I ” 


240 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


What would be the effect, he wondered, of words so 
rashly spoken ? Yet, if he spoke at all, must he not say 
something of this kind ? He felt Cordelia’s unconstrained 
glance rest upon him, as she awaited his answer to her 
question ; and he saw his wife’s eyes filled with vague 
amazement. 

Certainly — of course — I agree with you perfectly. 
Miss Hericourt,” he said, rather incoherently. “Your 
aunt has met with an accident, I think : in fact, I am 
almost sure of it. Such things are common enough ; and, 
with your knowledge of Miss Hericourt’s character, you 
know best what opinion is likely to be the correct one.” 
The poor Professor was aware that this reply was incon- 
sistent, and probably highly unsatisfactory ; and yet, when 
he had spoken, he experienced a strange sense of relief. 
A sunbeam, it seemed, had pierced the dark cloud, and 
cast a golden reflection over a portion of it. He drew a 
long breath, for there was no longer any danger of his 
frightful suspicion being revealed. 

“But,” broke in Mrs. Hoveden, “if that is so, some 
means should be taken at once to discover the whereabouts 
of the poor lady if she be still living. It is dreadful to 
think of her being alone in some hospital, or other equally 
disagreeable place. You ought to make some effort to 
find her. Miss Hericourt.” 

“That is what I should like — what I intend — to do,” 
said Cordelia. She remembered now, with all the force 
of a half-forgotten recollection which oftentimes springs 
forth to confront us defiantly, how powerless she was to 
act. She looked at Mrs. Hoveden, whose manner surely 
was kind and encouraging, and then at the Professor. His 
eyes were downcast ; but she felt instinctively, that, were 
they lifted to hers, their expression would not be a for- 
bidding one. 

“ I will be perfectly frank with you,” she said presently ; 


CORDELIA TELLS HER STORY. 


241 


'"that is, as frank as it is necessary to be. I left Santa 
Fe for two reasons. The principal one was owing to my 
desire to make an investigation in regard to my aunt, 
which included, of course, my own personal interest. 
The other reason — well — that does not matter. It has 
nothing to do with the present or the future. It concerns 
the past only.” 

“ Is there, then, a secret in your past } ” asked the 
Professor quickly. “ Forgive me,” he added : “ I have no 
right to put such a question. Do not answer it.” 

“There is no secret,” said Cordelia, smiling a little. 
“But I have known what it is to suffer regret, and to 
bewail opportunities voluntarily thrown away.” 

She was thinking then of Lamont ; and, unconsciously, 
a look of sadness came over her face, and obscured for an 
instant the light in her eyes. 

“ Who has not done so ? ” asked the Professor gravely. 
“It is owing to this, that we have some wise men in the 
world. I think,” he added, suddenly changing his tone to 
one more easy, “ you should lose no time in putting your 
plans into execution. Indeed, I fear you have delayed 
too long already. But I understand, that a girl like you, 
alone, and perhaps ignorant of such matters, would find 
it a difificult undertaking to learn any thing about Miss 
Hericourt. I have had some experience, however ; and I 
hope you will allow me to help you.” 

Cordelia’s face flushed. “You are too kind,” she said 
gratefully. “ I have long wanted to ask your advice, and 
to see also if you could put me in the way of getting some 
employment. You know,” she added bravely, “that I have 
come here to work.” 

“To work! why, what can you do.!*” he asked, in a low 
tone. He felt affected in some respect by the girl’s calm 
manner, which had impressed him from the beginning, and 
now penetrated to the very depths of his understanding. 


242 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


In her clear, honest eyes were an amount of determina- 
tion and an independence of spirit that fell upon his own 
overwrought imagination as a cool shower might upon a 
flower parched and withered by the sun’s heat. “ What 
can you do ? ” he repeated. Can you teach ? ” 

“Yes, I think so. I have been passably well educated. 
I should like, above all things, a position as governess ; 
but, unfortunately, no one wants me. I have made every 
effort to obtain such a situation, but, so far, without success. 
Six months have passed since I came to New York, and I 
am still idle. I confess that I begin to feel discouraged.” 

“Oh! you must not do that,” cried Mrs. Hoveden 
eagerly. “You have yet to learn, perhaps, that influence, 
not worth, gets us what we want, generally speaking. 
Perhaps we may be able to help you.” 

“ I am sure of it,” said the Professor confidently. “ We 
shall try, at all events. I am greatly interested in your 
story. Miss Hericourt, and would deem it a privilege to do 
something for you.” 

“ I thank you both for your goodness,” said Cordelia. 
“I did not expect to find such generous friends in this 
great, cold city. But what place can there be for me 
among these busy thousands ? ” 

“There is always room for one more, you know,” said 
Mrs. Hoveden, smiling. 

“You shall hear from us again in a day or two,” she 
added a moment later, when they rose to leave. 

“And do not be cast down in the mean while,” put in 
the Professor. “It is very remarkable about Miss Heri- 
court and your cousin, but I have no doubt that we shall 
in time throw some light on the mystery. Success always 
rewards diligent action. Do not forget that.” 

“ I cannot tell you how much I thank you both,” said 
Cordelia. “ Now that I know you, I no longer feel alone.” 

The Professor, with his wife leaning on his arm, left the 


CORDELIA TELLS HER STORY. 


243 


house in a few moments, and walked slowly along the bril- 
liantly lighted street. He breathed a deep sigh of mingled 
relief and satisfaction. Thank Heaven ! he had let neither 
Cordelia nor Mrs. Hoveden suspect what was passing in 
his mind. Try as he would, however, he could not drive 
the subject from him. Wherever he turned, it seemed to 
rise up and confront him like a grim spectre. It lingered 
in the yellow lamplight, and even in the dark clouds above, 
spangled with stars. He endeavored to escape from it by 
making several hasty attempts at conversation with his 
wife, but it was of no use. In his very tone lay a subdued 
excitement which he could not suppress, and presently he 
relapsed into gloomy silence. 

“What is the matter.?” asked Mrs. Hoveden. “Are 
you thinking of Miss Hericourt’s story, and your mistake 
of this afternoon .? ” 

“Yes,” he replied mechanically, “still thinking of it.” 

“ I never knew you to be so upset by a trifle,” she said. 
“ You are not personally concerned in the lady’s disappear- 
ance, and your error was natural enough. And yet, two 
or three times this evening you looked wild and frightened, 
just as if a ghost had suddenly appeared before you. You 
are growing old. Professor.” 

He made no answer, but walked along with his eyes 
fixed upon the ground. 

“ Ghosts are shadows,” he said finally, half to himself. 
“What I saw was flesh and blood.” 

“What are you saying.?” inquired his wife anxiously. 

“ Nothing, nothing. But if you care to do me a service, 
Maria, try to find some employment for that girl. Why, 
for instance, could she not teach Elfrida .? ” 

“ Elfrida ! It is not a matter to decide hastily,” said 
Mrs. Hoveden. “But I will think of it, and help her if I 
can.” 

They reached their own house as she spoke. The Pro- 


244 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


fessor looked up at the sky, and at the few dim, almost 
imperceptible, stars. 

“It must be done,” he said under his breath, “and I 
will help her. Come,” he added to his wife, “let us go in 
quickly. It is cold, and I am chilled through.” 

They passed through the entrance, closing the heavy 
door with a bang that resounded through the deserted 
street, and sent back a faint echo. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


ELFRIDA. 

“ Et ses yeux bleus, dont le ton 
Est changeant, chez quels artistes, ^ 

Chez quels rois, les trouve-t-on, 

Ces saphirs pleins d’amethystes ? ” — Jean Richepin, 

Cordelia went to bed that night with a smile on her 
lips ; and, when she rose on the following morning, her 
heart felt lighter than it had done for many a day. What 
power sometimes the smallest incident has which comes 
unawares into our lives, changing our surroundings from 
mere dross to purest gold, and imbuing us with a sense 
of ease and hopefulness, unjustifiable perhaps, but real for 
all that ! It was so at this moment with Cordelia. Her 
conversation with the Hovedens, although nothing in 
itself, had roused her latent faculties into activity, and 
caused her discouragement to melt away like frost beneath 
the sun’s rays. Her disposition was naturally a bright 
one, little given to view the wrong side of possibilities ; 
and now she was somewhat animated by the prospect of a 
future as joyous as it was unexpected. There was, of 
course, no reason whatever for this. Her new friends had 
made no promises of any kind ; and yet, she finished 
dressing, and threw open the window shutters, allowing: 
the pale winter sunshine to penetrate the room, she felt a 
sudden exhilarating warmth which seemed to come in with 
it, and touch her tenderly. 


246 A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE. 

There were present in her mind just now many things 
which did not allow her to dwell upon any one subject 
exclusively. They came forward in quiet succession, and 
repeated themselves endlessly. The mystery of Miss 
Hericourt and Margaret was foremost among them. Once 
or twice she thought to see in some vague, quick impres- 
sion the probable solution of the riddle ; but, when she 
seized it, it grew fainter, and dissolved gradually in her 
grasp. Then Lament, too, rising before her in imagina- 
tion, always with the same look of sorrowful inquiry, would 
cause her frequently to bury her face in both hands to 
shut out the vision which even then refused to disappear. 
Sometimes he recurred to her memory like a recollection 
of childish days, indistinct and imperfect ; and she would 
seek in vain to recall his face. In spite of her efforts, she 
saw nothing but a confusion of outlines with no distin- 
guishing trait. “Can I have forgotten him.?” she would 
ask herself in despair. “ How is it that his features are 
lost to me while my heart remembers .? ” 

But Lament was still there, although his presence was 
not always made apparent. By patiently waiting for the 
right moment, he was visible to her vivid fancy in various 
forms. Now in his priestly robes of gold cloth and deli- 
cate lace ; then in his straight black cassock, which in- 
creased his height, and lent additional stateliness to his 
well-made figure ; and again, as he had appeared in the 
plaza^ the victim of an outraged populace, with the warm 
sunbeams dancing on his pale, blood-stained face. Many 
times, too, she recalled the scene at the convent, where 
Lament, sitting in the twilight, had related the story of his 
love, and crav^ her comprehension. What had become 
of him since then .? Whither had he gone .? 

She sat for a while this morning, gazing now and then 
at the busy street, and thinking alternately of Lament, 
Miss Hericourt, and the Hovedens. 


ELFRIDA, 


247 


“What wonderful changes occur in one’s life ! ” she said 
to herself thoughtfully. “ To-day we are not as we were 
yesterday, and to-morrow we shall be still different.” Her 
glance wandered to a rose-bush which stood on her window- 
bench. Some of the flowers were falling to pieces, others 
just budding from the stalk. The leaves, which only a few 
hours before were green, now had a yellow tinge, — the 
first sign of approaching decay. 

“ Soon it will pass away to be forgotten,” thought Cor- 
delia. “ Shall we, too, I wonder, die, forget, and be lost 
from the memory of others } If so, to what end are 
our joys, pur passions, and this constant striving to reach 
something we can never attain ? ” 

She stood for a moment regarding the flower, but turned 
away presently to dress herself for the street. Catching 
sight of her face in the small mirror of her toilet-table, she 
bent forward, and examined it attentively. Yes, it had lost 
some of its freshness undoubtedly, and bore traces of deep 
anxiety. But these would be removed under the healthier 
influences which she was confident were in store for her. 

As she was about to leave the room, a servant met her, 
and handPd her a note. Cordelia, her fingers trembling 
with expectation, tore it quickly open. It was from Mrs. 
Hoveden, who begged Miss Hericourt, if disengaged, to 
come to her as soon as possible. 

“Certainly, this is encouraging,” thought Cordelia. 
“She can want to see me for one purpose only.” 

She looked at the address on the note, and, going down- 
stairs rather more hastily than usual, left the house. The 
sun was shining gayly, and the slight fall of snow which 
covered the ground glistened in the light. She was op- 
pressed by none of the nervousness of uncertainty. It 
was not that she was absolutely sure of having her hopes 
fulfilled, for that would have been both foolish and ground- 
less. But she was animated by a spirit of expectancy, 


248 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


which seemed to have generated spontaneously within her. 
She thought a great deal about the Hovedens. There 
was something in them — perhaps their comprehension 
and sympathy — that attracted her. The Professor, espe- 
cially, interested her; and she could understand her 
father’s liking for him. 

When she reached the house, and was admitted to 
the luxurious drawing-room, a hundred different reflec- 
tions assailed her. Since her home had been broken up 
by the death of Major Hericourt, and the circumstances 
that followed it, she had enjoyed but few comforts. She 
noted now the elegant surroundings, taking from them a 
certain exquisite enjoyment. As she sat buried in the 
depths of an easy-chair, the gold embroidery of which 
glittered in the red glow of the firelight, she partly closed 
her eyes, and allowed her thoughts to wander unrestrained. 
Was it remarkable that they reverted with a sudden bound, 
as it were, to the cathedral at Santa Fe, as she had seen 
it some months ago ? True, the walls were only of rough 
adobe ; but this was forgotten when one penetrated the 
interior, where the light was subdued, as it was in this 
drawing-room, and where the tall candles on the altar 
illuminated the crude but effective decorations. There 
had been, perhaps, more sober brilliancy in that rude, un- 
pretending building than here, where an artistic taste and 
a feminine refinement predominated. The soft clouds of 
fragrant incense floating over the tawdry flowers and 
waxen images idealized them, for the moment, into spir- 
itual beauty and grace. And as they rose higher and 
higher in faint bluish lines, which lost themselves in the 
dull atmosphere above, the strong, clear tones of the 
priest grew more impressive. One form there was to 
which the ecclesiastical robes had seemed especially 
adapted, and this figure had been the central object in 
those scenes. 


ELFRIDA. 


249 


When Padre Lament retired to the sacristy at the con- 
clusion of mass, the words he had spoken seemed to 
linger and hover in the air like a sound which melts gradu- 
ally away in the distance. Even when it had apparently 
ceased, some trace of his presence still remained. 

It was this distinct personality which separated Lament 
from all others Cordelia had ever known, and made his 
influence at once general and special. When she had 
first seen him, she had been struck by his resolute voice, 
and his broad forehead, upon which truth had written its 
name. Since then — ah! since then she had doubted and 
repulsed him. He had passed as completely from her 
life as had the days she had lived, and which were buried 
past recall. As she sat motionless, allowing her fancy to 
place before her a series of vivid pictures, she felt an in- 
tense sadness at this last thought of Lamont. A moment 
longer she contemplated his image ; and then both he and 
the cathedral faded from view just as the handle of the 
door was gently turned, and Mrs. Hoveden entered the 
room. Cordelia opened her half-closed eyes. All had van- 
ished save the drawing-room, into whose sombre recesses 
the fire threw gleams of ruddy light. Had she been dream- 
ing } No : it had been too real for a dream, and dreams 
are quickly forgotten. It was like an actual experience, 
and she would store it away in her memory until chance 
should call it forth again. 

‘‘How kind of you to come so soon 1” said Mrs. Hove- 
den, advancing with extended hand. 

“I was going out for a walk just as your note reached 
me, and I thought it would be as well to come here as go 
elsewhere,” said Cordelia frankly. “Besides, I did not 
know but the matter might be pressing: you remember 
your note said ‘as soon as possible.’ ” 

“Yes ; I believe it did : and, to go straight to the point. 
Miss Hericourt, I have a proposition to make to you,” 


250 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


said Mrs. Hoveden with resolution. ‘‘You told us last 
evening, that you were qualified to take a position as gov- 
erness. Are you prepared to repeat that statement ? ” 
She smiled, and looked at Cordelia encouragingly. 

“Yes: I think so. I would never make a remark of 
that kind without having considered it well beforehand. 
I have not much knowledge, it is true ; but I try to learn 
as I live. I am sure that to-day I know more than I did 
yesterday, and such acquirements as I have I am able to 
share.” She smiled, too, as she spoke. 

“You have confidence, I see, in spite of your modesty,” 
said Mrs. Hoveden, laughing lightly. “ I have no doubt 
you know more than you wish to confess. But a student 
is not always able to be a teacher.” 

“True,” said Cordelia, a little doubtfully. “So far as 
actual teaching goes, I have had but slender experience. 
I can only judge of my capability by the results of efforts 
made while in Santa Fe. I taught many children there, 
and I think they were the better for it.” 

“Of course,” said Mrs. Hoveden kindly, “I was only 
joking when I ventured to question your merit as a 
teacher. I can see that you have perseverance ; and, in 
using that term, I say a great deal.” 

“Have you, then, found some occupation for me.^” asked 
Cordelia, framing the question without hesitation. “If so, 
I can never thank you enough.” 

“It is for you to decide. Miss Hericourt. Mr. Hoveden 
and I thought you might like to instruct our little girl, 
Elfrida. She is ten years of age, and of a peculiar tem- 
perament. I do not send her to school ; because, being 
different from other children, she is better disciplined at 
home. I prefer that she should remain as much as possi- 
ble under my influence. Do you not agree with me } ” 

“Yes, although I have never known what a mother’s 
influence is,” said Cordelia. “ I often wonder whether I 


ELFRIDA. 


25 


should have grown up very unlike myself at present if 
I had had my mother with me. But, Mrs. Hoveden,” she 
continued after a pause, “I do not know how to be suffi- 
ciently grateful for your generous offer.” She hesitated, 
and tears rose to her eyes. “ It is so much more than I 
had any right to expect,” she said. 

“Then, you accept,” said Mrs. Hoveden re-assuringly. 
“How pleased Mr. Hoveden will be, and how glad I am ! 
But I have something else to say, Miss Hericourt. If 
you undertake to teach Elfrida, you must come to live 
here. I want you to be a constant companion to the child 
as well as a governess : you will understand why when you 
see her. And now we must decide upon your salary.” 

“That shall be left entirely to you,” said Cordelia 
quickly. “I cannot tell you how your kindness affects me. 
Yesterday I was alone, and without resources : now you 
offer me occupation, and a home besides. It is more than 
I deserve : it is too much.” She spoke with emotion, and 
for a moment all was misty before her eyes. “ It is won- 
derful,” she said presently, “ to think of joys and benefits 
derived from strangers, while those who are nearer to us, 
and presumably interested in our welfare, often make 
every endeavor to avoid even a glance in our direction. 
Upon what is based the feeling which draws us to those 
who are unknown to us, and raises immense barriers be- 
tween ourselves and our relations ? Can you explain it ? ” 

“I think blood has very little to do with affection,” said 
Mrs. Hoveden thoughtfully. “What we seek principally 
in life are natures in harmony with our own, and these 
are what we seldom find within the precincts of our family. 
In fact,” she added, smiling, “this is one of the Profess- 
ors pet theories. He asserts that brothers and sisters, 
parents and children, are naturally antagonistic, and that 
they are only enabled to live together by means of ac- 
quired traits, and an enormous amount of cultivation.” 


252 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


“Oh ! it cannot be so bad as that,” said Cordelia, unable 
to refrain from laughing. “The Professor’s theory may 
be true in some cases, but these I am sure are in the 
minority. See, though, how far we have wandered from 
our subject. I was going to ask some questions about 
your little girl. Now that I am to superintend her educa- 
tion, I am anxious to know her. Is she at home ? Can 
I see her .? ” 

“ I hoped you would ask to see her ; for, in spite of her 
strange ways, I am very proud of her. You will pardon 
my vanity .? ” 

“ I do not call it vanity. Pray bring her to me,” said 
Cordelia. 

Mrs. Hoveden left the room, and returned almost imme- 
diately, leading by the hand a little girl, so delicately and 
slightly formed that she seemed a fairy rather than a. 
creature of flesh and blood. Her skin was almost waxen 
in its whiteness, save on the cheeks, where a faint pink 
color came and went ; and her long yellow hair hung in 
loose curls upon her shoulders. Her dress, of a quaint 
cut and fashion, lent to her small figure an air of distinc- 
tion and originality. As she raised her large violet-blue 
eyes to those of Cordelia, there was in them an expression 
of dignity mingled with coquetry, any thing but childlike, 
and which gave to the small face the appearance of having 
by chance been placed upon the wrong body. But almost 
instantly the look vanished, giving place to one of subdued, 
wondering inquiry ; and then she was a very child indeed, 
almost infantile in her personality. 

“This is Miss Hericourt, Elfrida,” said Mrs. Hoveden, 
placing a hand on each shoulder of the child. “ She is 
coming to live with us and teach you, if you will promise 
to be a good girl, and do nothing to vex her.” 

“She could do no wrong, I am sure,” said Cordelia, 
drawing the diminutive figure toward her with a kindly 


ELFRIDA. 


253 


movement. ‘‘Will you love me, Elfrida, and learn what 
I shall try to teach you ? ” 

“ Oh ! I know a great deal already,” said the child, in a 
light, sweet tone, quite in keeping with her dainty form. 
“ I know perhaps more than you do.” 

“Fie, Elfrida ! you should not speak so,” said her mother 
reprovingly. “Were you to study for years, you would 
not know so much as Miss Hericourt does. I am ashamed 
when you say such silly things.” 

Elfrida made no answer. She stood for a moment re- 
garding Cordelia doubtfully, but in no wise abashed by 
her mother’s words. Presently she ran forward impul- 
sively, and, throwing her arms about Cordelia’s neck, 
kissed her repeatedly. 

“ I am naughty,” she whispered. “ But I will love you, 
and learn whatever you like.” 

“ What a charming child ! ” exclaimed Cordelia with 
genuine enthusiasm. “ She has an individuality of her 
own at the age of ten. How many of us have it at fifty } 
Do you know much, Elfrida } Can you tell me what you 
have already learned } ” 

“When you come to teach me, I will do so,” answered 
the child. “But I will dance for you now.” She raised 
her little arms above her head with an easy gesture, and 
again the coquettish look came into her eyes. “ See,” she 
cried in her sweet voice, “ how well I can dance.” She 
threw back her head, and in another moment was moving 
back and forth over the carpet with a quick, graceful step. 
The firelight shot up joyfully into yellow and purple flame, 
and threw fantastic reflections on the child’s dress as she 
swept lightly by, and passed into the gloom at the far end 
of the room. There she paused, and a little mocking 
laugh broke from her. 

Cordelia watched her, half fascinated. Could this be 
a child, — this beautiful, self-possessed creature about 


254 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE, 


whom lingered an indistinct air of mystery ? How fanci- 
ful a picture she made, standing there, a spot of light in 
the semi-darkness, and bending forward to regard Cordelia 
with that mocking laugh ! 

“Come, foolish Elfrida,” said Mrs. Hoveden, “and run 
away to your nurse. Miss Hericourt does not care to see 
you dance.” 

“ Oh ! but I do,” exclaimed Cordelia eagerly. “ Pray 
dance some more, Elfrida.” 

But, as if suddenly overcome by a spirit of contrariety, 
the child drew herself up, and resumed her usual atti- 
tude. 

“ I have done ; no more,” she said, approaching Cordelia 
with a delicate, airy tread. “When you come to teach 
me, I will show you how many things I can do. Will you 
come soon .? ” 

“Whenever your mamma wishes, dear.” 

“The sooner the better,” said Mrs. Hoveden. “You 
see, she is in need of some training. Her imconvention- 
ality, if unchecked, may cause her to grow up very differ- 
ent from what she ought to be. And now, Elfrida, go 
up-stairs to Mary, and let me talk to Miss Hericourt.” 

Elfrida, who had been looking attentively at her mother, 
now came close to her, and smiled. “You want to talk 
about me, mamma, and you do not wish me to hear ? ” she 
asked, with a quick glance at Cordelia. 

“At all events, we can converse better without you,” 
said Mrs. Hoveden, laughing. 

“Very well,” answered the child with sudden gravity. 
“Good-by, good-by.” She nodded, or rather bowed, to 
Cordelia, hesitated for a moment, and then with a little, 
rippling laugh, ran from the room. 

“She is a strange child,” said Cordelia. “I have never 
seen one like her. There is something intangible about 
her, and I fear almost to touch her.” 


ELFRIDA. 


255 


“Yes, she is very peculiar,” said Mrs. Hoveden ; “and 
I often wonder whence she derives her odd ways. She is 
not like the Professor or me in any respect. But she has 
a kind, impulsive heart, and a quick intelligence, — too 
quick, if any thing ; so you must use your discretion in 
regard to the studies you give her. Whatever they may 
be, you will find her a willing pupil. When will you be- 
gin .? ” 

“ As soon as possible, if you have quite decided to en- 
gage me. Would the day after to-morrow do } ” 

“ Perfectly. Make your arrangements to come here 
then ; and if, in the mean while, I can help you in any 
way, you must let me know.” 

“Your kindness really touches me,” said Cordelia, “and 
I can assure you it is not misplaced. But I have no occa- 
sion to trespass upon your generosity. The few prepara- 
tions which are necessary, I can easily make alone.” 

She rose to go, feeling imbued with a fresh sensation of 
strength and courage. At last she was on the track which 
would lead her to the end so long desired. The •\dsion 
of old Miss Hericourt and Margaret seemed to become 
clearer and more definite ; and perhaps other thoughts, 
too, were nearer the possibility of realization. 

Later, when she was again in her own room, thinking 
intently of what had passed, pleasure was mingled with 
her hope and thankfulness. It would be a new experience 
to live in this family, where the characters of the Professor 
and his wife, and the quaint originality of little Elfrida, 
interested her profoundly. She was haunted by the recol- 
lection of the tiny figure whose violet-blue eyes, clear and 
innocent, and withal so grave and mature, seemed filled 
with much that was too deep for childish utterance. 

“ They are honest, affectionate eyes too,” said Cordelia, 
smiling as she recalled the dainty form moving swiftly 
over the floor in the changing firelight. “And I think I 


256 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE, 


shall be happy there, — far happier than I have been 
since ” — 

She did not finish the sentence ; for she had become 
suddenly thoughtful, as though some other vision had come 
before her, and overshadowed that of the child. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


A LITTLE LATER. 

“ Ignorance is not a necessary evil. It is not produced by any defect in the organ- 
ism, since there is no man who is not endowed with a memory capable of containing 
infinitely more facts than are required for the discovery of the greatest truths.” — Hel- 
VETIUS. 

After Cordelia became an inmate of the Professor’s 
house, the months rolled quietly by, uneventful in a cer- 
tain sense, yet crowded with expectations never realized, 
and hopes constantly deferred. For, in all this time, no 
news could be obtained of Miss Hericourt or Margaret, 
notwithstanding the efforts made by the Professor to gain 
information concerning them. It was the Aldergroves, 
mother and daughter, for whom he sought ; but Cordelia 
did not know this. She was still convinced that her aunt 
had been the victim of some terrible disaster, — that her 
naturally weak mind had perhaps given way altogether, 
leaving her irresponsible for her actions ; and the Professor 
never tried to undeceive the girl by presenting to her 
his own version of the affair. Since nothing definite 
could apparently be learned, he preferred to remain silent ; 
and perhaps he did well. Gradually the subject, which at 
first had been much talked of among them, was dropped, 
and only occasionally alluded to. Cordelia would, however, 
often note an expression on the Professor’s face very 
different from his ordinary one, and would glance at him 
with significant inquiry ; but he always shook his head, 

257 


258 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


and, when he spoke, turned his remarks into another 
channel. 

Still, she could not help thinking of it all, and dwelling 
upon it, more, very likely, than was good for her ; while, 
as for the Professor, the images of Margaret and of Mrs. 
Aldergrove were constantly before him, surrounded by the 
luxuries which Cordelia’s money had given them. He 
dreamed of these women by night, and by day their pres- 
ence rarely left him. Yet what could he do Which 
way must he turn in order to find them } 

In Cordelia’s moments of sadness, which were not in- 
frequent, it was little Elfrida who brought the smile back 
to her lips again. Often the child would enter, uninvited, 
her governess’s room, and, running toward her with a. 
merry light in her eyes, exclaim, — 

“Why are you so grav^e. Miss Hericourt ? What makes 
you sad } When I am grown up, I shall never sit like 
that : I shall laugh and dance all the time.” 

Then, perhaps, before Cordelia could reply, the child 
had flitted away again ; and the clear, ringing tones of her 
voice came floating from a distance. It relieved Cordelia 
merely to see a creature so mirthful, and free from care. 
And yet, notwithstanding her prediction of continual 
gayety, Elfrida sometimes shed tears of childish passion, 
when her tiny form trembled with anger, and her sweet 
voice was drowned in convulsive sobs. She was a strange 
child indeed, impetuous and wilful on occasions, but always 
affectionate, and retaining, regardless of circumstances, 
that mysterious grace and coquettish gravity which seemed 
so out of place in her. During her lessons she was gen- 
erally attentive, and quick to grasp a meaning ; but fre- 
quently, in the midst of a serious discussion, she would 
spring to her feet, and, with hands gracefully posed, dance 
lightly backward and forward over the floor, laughing the 
while at Cordelia’s consternation. 


A LITTLE LATER. 


259 


‘^See, Miss Hericoiirt, this is a step I taught myself 
yesterday ; and I danced it this morning for Mary. I for- 
got until now that you had not seen it. You could not 
dance like that, could you, Miss Hericourt V 

“No, dear,” Cordelia would reply. “You dance very 
prettily ; but will you not wait until lessons are over, to 
show me your new step Your mamma would not like 
to see you dance now.” 

“Yes, yes, I know! I am coming directly,” Elfrida 
would exclaim. And then, letting her arms fall suddenly 
to her side, she would return to her seat, and resume her 
studies. 

It was a peaceful life which Cordelia led, broken only 
by memories of the past, which extended beyond their 
boundaries, touching the present, and casting at the same 
time a shadowy reflection across the future. But all the 
while her nature grew and expanded into womanliness of 
the purest type. Of what priceless value are even a few 
brief years in early life to the man or woman who has 
seen and endured with the intention of profiting by expe- 
rience ! Life surely is not made up of time, but rather 
of thought, feeling, and action, independently of days. 
Children sometimes are older than we. 

Cordelia Hericourt had a nature which demanded con- 
tinual growth. The wisdom of to-day with her was often 
the ignorance of to-morrow. Novelty she did not seek, 
but rather those things which have always existed, the 
grand truths of nature that never change. To be brought 
face to face with one of these, knowing that it would re- 
main as it was in spite of every variation of time, was an 
intense delight to her. She did not, however, grow cyn- 
ical, as is too often the case with those who investigate 
the groundwork of things, and analyze the human char- 
acter. The knowledge, for instance, that self-love is man’s 
ruling passion, inspired her with pity rather than ill-nature. 


26 o 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


All the petty weaknesses, invisible to unpractised eyes, 
which her own keen glance detected, served only as a 
basis for speculation and inference. But in this way her 
views became enlarged, and her faculty of perception so 
acute, that it required but slight effort on her part in order 
to discover much. 

The Professor and his wife, besides being intellectual, 
possessed in a marked degree that capacity for compre- 
hension which is sometimes of more value than actual 
wisdom. They had, moreover, strong powers of appre- 
ciation ; and, to them both, Cordelia was a constant source 
of wonder and delight. 

To observe the gradual unfolding of the girl’s tastes 
and ideas, to see the slow but perfect growth of her na- 
ture, was more interesting to the Professor than any thing 
else. So well did he understand her, that often a word or 
a look from her spoke eloquently to him of many things. 
He could see plainly when doubt assailed her, and was 
always ready to help her by giving her the benefit of his 
own mature judgment. When this was successfully car- 
ried out, his delight almost equalled hers. 

Mrs. Hoveden often watched them with deep interest. 
By following Cordelia in her steady march onward, she 
herself had advanced ; and unconsciously her views and 
opinions were colored by a delicate reflection from those 
of<he girl. But she could not help feeling amused some- 
times by the change which had overtaken the Professor, 
and in her heart she was grateful for the nobler vein which 
association with Cordelia had given to his manhood. She 
was not jealous of this influence ; and, during the long 
winter evenings, nothing gave her more pleasure than to 
sit silent, and listen to them both, as, deep in the discus- 
sipn of some fresh topic, each would present ideas and 
opinions often with startling effect. 

Pervading all this were a peace and gentleness which 


A LITTLE LATER. 


26 


made the home almost an ideal one, — Cordelia, with her 
elevated sentiments, and quiet dignity of manner, going 
always to the lowest depth of all that could be pene- 
trated ; the two older people, possessing strong individu- 
ality of a different type, the one eager to grasp the better 
part of all, the other developing more slowly perhaps, but 
yet surely ; and, last of all, the little, mystical Elfrida, flit- 
ting from one to the other, anxious apparently to gain 
something from each ; as the humming-bird, swaying to 
and fro, extracts perfume and sweetness from every flower. 

Peaceful indeed ! and yet, did no regrets come to mar 
this existence ? Were there not thoughts which tore them- 
selves forcibly from the present to dwell in the past ? Did 
a day ever exist when the cloudless sky, from dawn to 
sunset, was marred by no tiny speck } Surely not ; and 
it is, perhaps, this very impossibility of perfection, or 
entire content, which spurs us onward, always pursuing, 
and never attaining, but meeting withal, in the search, 
much that endows life for a while with pure delight. Half 
our pleasure, in fact, consists in striving for that which 
we cannot reach. A child chasing a butterfly across a 
summer field knows, perhaps, that his tiny hands will 
never grasp it; but he is joyous in the pursuit. Indeed, 
could he seize the brilliant creature, would he not hold it 
for a brief second only, casting it aside, in all probability, 
immediately afterward ? 

So likewise, if Cordelia had unsatisfied desires, they 
were animated by the hope of final gratification ; and in 
pursuing them she was happy. We are permitted to come 
no nearer to perfect enjoyment than this. In every heart 
lingers some expectation, never destined to be fulfilled 
perhaps, but which we nourish cheerfully with hope, until 
at last the spark of life dies out, and we and our secret 
longing are buried together. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

A MEETING. 

“ ‘ H^las ! ’ disait Zadig, ‘ j’ai ete longtemps couche sur ces herbes seches et pi- 
quantes. Je suis maintenant sur le lit de roses, mais quel sera le serpent? ’ ” 

“ It is a great disappointment to me, Maria,” said the 
Professor one evening, when he and his wife happened to 
be alone together; “but I fear the Hericourt affair is 
hopeless.” He put down the paper he was reading, and 
looked gravely at his companion. 

“ I heartily wish it were otherwise,” said Mrs. Hoveden, 
with a sigh. “Cordelia is a noble girl, and the recollec- 
tion of her wrongs always makes me unhappy. She seems 
contented, however : do you not think so ? ” 

“ Contented ? yes ; for she understands how to adapt 
herself to the inevitable. She will always be contented, 
having discovered long ago the uselessness of complaint. 
Cordelia has become a philosopher,” said the Professor. 

“And I am glad of it,” said Mrs. Hoveden, “It shows, 
does it not, that the little incidents of our lives are the 
principal agents in forming our characters.^ Cordelia with 
a different story to tell would not be Cordelia at all.” 

“Where is she this evening.?” inquired the Professor, 
glancing about as if he had just missed her, 

“ In her room, reading a new book. Have you noticed 
that she rarely mentions her trouble .? 1 can see, however, 

262 


A MEETING. 263 

that her mind still dwells upon it. She has much fortitude 
for one so young.” 

“ So far as that goes, it is the young alone who should 
display fortitude,” answered the Professor. “And why 
not ^ They have strength and courage and hope. If they 
are wanting in these qualities, it is owing to another which 
overwhelms them. I mean indolence.” He brought his 
hand down upon the table forcibly, as though he were 
delivering a lecture. 

“Cordelia certainly is not indolent,” said his wife, with 
deliberation. “ Indeed, I have never seen one who pos- 
sessed a more active temperament, both mentally and 
physically. Did Miss Aldergrove resemble her in this 
respect ? ” 

“ How should I know } ” asked the Professor indiffer- 
ently. He was always strangely anxious to avoid any 
discussion with his wife in regard to the journey across 
the plains. He feared, perhaps, to inadvertently reveal 
the suspicions which rested on his mind, and gave him no 
peace night or day. Ever since Cordelia had become an 
inmate of his house, the certainty that his view of the case 
was the correct one had grown more distinct ; and with 
this idea came a firmer determination to see justice done. 
He often sat lost in reflection, his thoughts centring, with 
gloomy persistence, upon the facts of the case ; and Mrs. 
Hoveden, watching him, wondered what it could be that 
occupied him so entirely. She had been on the point 
several times of putting the question to him boldly, but 
somehow the words refused to frame themselves upon, her 
lips. 

“You remember,” the Professor continued finally, “I 
saw very little of the ladies. Their characters, therefore, 
cannot be familiar to me. I do not think I ever heard 
Miss Aldergrove speak, except on the day her cousin 
disappeared.” A sardonic smile passed over his lips as 


264 


A /RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


he uttered the word “cousin/* Mrs. Hoveden, however, 
did not appear to notice it. 

“ Is Burton still engaged upon the search } ” she asked, 
after a short silence. 

“ Yes ; he has left no stone unturned : and I have spared 
no expense, as you know. But, so far, it has resulted in 
nothing,” said the Professor, with melancholy resignation. 
“I saw Burton yesterday, and had a long talk with him 
about it. He spoke of a friend or acquaintance of his, 
who had lived in Santa Fe in ’54 or thereabouts, and said 
he would be sure to know the Hericourts. I asked him to 
send this friend to call upon me this evening if possible. 
I hardly think, however, that his information, if he have 
any, will be of much use.” 

“ It might be,” said Mrs. Hoveden encouragingly. “ Who 
is he ? and what is his name } ” 

“I do not know who he is ; but his name is Lament, — 
Paul Lament. Burton has known him, it seems, for some 
time, but neglected to mention him before.” 

“ Lament ! ” repeated Mrs. Hoveden, with a look of 
puzzled reflection. “ The name is not unfamiliar. Surely, 
I have heard it pronounced recently, or, at all events, one 
similar.” 

“ Very likely,” said the Professor laconically. He had 
dropped his head upon his hand, and seemed to be thinking 
of something else. 

“ I have heard the name of Lamont within twenty-four 
hours,” persisted Mrs. Hoveden ; “and, if I mistake not, 
it was pronounced by Cordelia.” 

“By Cordelia!” repeated the Professor. “Why,” he 
resumed, with a sudden change of manner, “I recollect 
meeting a priest of that name at the Hericourts’ house. 
I had forgotten the incident until this moment. He came 
to get money for some charity, or to say prayers for the 
repose of the Major’s soul, or something of that sort. He 


A MEETING, 


265 


was a fine-looking fellow, I think ; although I can recall 
him but indistinctly. This Lament, however, cannot be 
the same. I wish he were, for he might give me some 
valuable information.” 

“ A Roman-Catholic priest ! Of course, he is the one 
whose name sounds familiar. I have often heard Cordelia 
speak of Padre Lament. She must have known him well.” 

“ It would be strange indeed if there were two of them 
in Santa Fe at the same time,” said the Professor reflec- 
tively. “ The one who is coming here cannot be a priest. 
At least. Burton did not say so. But perhaps it is not 
so extraordinary after all. He may have had a brother, — 
the priest, I mean. In fact, the whole city of Santa Fe 
may have been full of Laments, for all I know.” 

“True; or the priest may have left the Church,” sug- 
gested Mrs. Hoveden, unwilling to renounce the possibility 
of identity between the Lament of New Mexico and the 
Lament of New York. 

“ Nonsense ! ” cried the Professor. “ Left the Church !. 
Why, what can you be thinking of.? Had he done so, he. 
woLild have gone to rack and ruin at once.” 

“ I do not see the necessity for that,” said Mrs. Hoveden.. 
“ Pray, what should send him there .? ” 

“ Partly inclination, I suppose,” said the Professor,, 
laughing, “ and partly the curses of those who remained 
behind. But listen ! Is not that the bell .? ” 

“ Yes ; and you probably wish to be alone with this mys- 
terious visitor,” said Mrs. Hoveden, rising. “ Shall I men- 
tion his name to Cordelia .? ” 

“ By no means ! ” exclaimed the Professor hastily. “ If 
he is the man she used to know, I shall send for her later. 
It will be time enough to speak of him then.” 

Mrs. Hoveden withdrew softly from the room by a door 
at the back of the apartment, just as another door at the 
front opened to admit Lamont’s tall figure. The mellow 


266 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


lamplight falling across his face revealed his well-poised 
head, and strong, sharply-cut features. He did not hold 
himself quite so erect now as formerly, and the dignity of 
his bearing had lost its trace of haughtiness. When he 
spoke, however, the full, round tones of his voice were 
imbued with the same feminine sweetness as of old. 

“ Professor Hoveden, I believe,” he said, inclining his 
head slightly. 

The Professor rose, and extended his hand with a cordial 
gesture. You are Mr. Lament, of course,” he answered. 
“ Pray be seated.” 

Lament took the chair from which Mrs. Hoveden had 
just risen ; regarding his companion, the while, with close 
scrutiny. “This is not the first time we have met,” he 
said interrogatively. “Were you not in Santa Fe several 
years ago } ” 

“Yes; and I remember seeing you there,” said the Pro- 
fessor with delight. “In fact, my wife and I were just 
discussing the possibility ” — He hesitated, casting a side- 
long glance at the other’s dress. “You see,” he went on 
awkwardly, “ you were differently situated then ; and I 
hardly thought the Lament mentioned by my lawyer. 
Burton, could be Padre Lament, the priest. When you 
entered the room, however, I recognized you instantly, and 
with ill-concealed gratification I am sure.” 

“ I thank you for your courtesy,” said Lament deferen- 
tially. “ I, too, recognized you.’l Then, after a pause, he 
added, “I understand to what you refer. You did not 
know that I resigned from the priesthood shortly after you 
were in New Mexico } ” 

“ No : I had no means of hearing any thing at that 
time from Santa Fe. Have you been here since then.?” 

“Yes,” said Lamont musingly, “and leading a peculiar 
life, — an unpleasant one in some respects, but one to be 
persevered in for many reasons.” 


A MEETING. 


267 


How odd that you should be the same Lament ! ” said 
the Professor. “I saw you but once in Santa Fe. It was 
at the Hericourts’, if I remember rightly.” 

‘‘The Hericourts!” Lament had started at the men- 
tion of the name, and then repeated it almost tenderly. 
For an instant afterwards he was silent, overcome by a 
host of varied recollections. This name, which he had not 
heard pronounced for so long, carried him back to a period 
that rose up in his memory like a half-forgotten dream. 
A moment ago the Professor had been nothing to him 
personally, but now he seemed bound to him by close ties 
of friendship. ' He was like a link connecting two portions 
of a broken chain. Had he not known Cordelia ? Had he 
not spoken to her, and heard her voice ? 

“Of course, you remember them,” continued the Pro- 
fessor. “I met you there just before the ladies of the 
family, with one exception, left Santa Fe for the East. 
You were their confessor, I think.” 

“The Hericourts’ confessor, and their friend as well,” 
said Lament with a sad smile. “ I cannot recall that part 
of my life without a sense of regret. I do not mean that 
I would act diEerently were I again placed in similar cir- 
cumstances. But I lost much then that I can never hope 
to regain.” 

“ I can well understand that,” said the Professor, with 
a smile which somehow faltered before the other’s glance. 
“In renouncing your vows, you entered naturally upon 
an existence far removed from that you had been lead- 
ing. Can we ever alter our manner of living without 
regret ? ” 

“ It seems not. We are bound to have regrets whether 
we go forward, or remain stationary, — whether we pursue 
a particular course, or not. It matters little after all. 
Man is doomed to mourn the absence of that which he has 
not. Can it make any real difference whether he does so 


268 


A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE. 


in one condition or another ? Had I remained a priest I 
should have been miserable. How, then, can I hope to be 
less so, now that I am a priest no longer ? ” 

He said this in so sad a tone that the Professor raised 
his eyes in mute sympathy. For an instant there was 
silence between them. Then he said deliberately, — 

“ There is misery and misery. The regrets you would 
have suffered by remaining in the priesthood are not of the 
same kind as those which now sway you ? ” 

“No, of course they are not. But they are there, 
nevertheless.” 

“You speak with strange hopelessness,” said the Pro- 
fessor earnestly. “ You must have met with bitter disap- 
pointment.” His tone was half-questioning, but Lamont 
made no reply. He sat gazing absently at the far end of 
the room, where a hanging lamp of silver, suspended to the 
ceiling by heavy chains, shed a soft yellow glow upon the 
carpet. As he looked, Cordelia Hericourt seemed to rise 
slowly up before him, and stand, a white ethereal figure, in 
the midst of the light. A golden radiance emanated from 
her apparently, deepening in color, and spreading wider 
until it stretched across the whole apartment : then sud- 
denly it faded, and the shadowy form disappeared. 

He roused himself, and turned to the Professor. “ I un- 
derstand from Burton,” he said, striving to utter the words 
naturally, “ that you wished to see me about something 
connected with Santa Fe. If my kno\yledge can be of any 
service to you, pray command me. My thoughts appear a 
little confused, doubtless ; but you will pardon this, I am 
sure. It is not often that Santa Fe and the events that 
happened there are brought before me as they have been 
this evening.” 

“I thank you for speaking so frankly,” said the Pro- 
fessor ; “ and I am grateful to you for coming to see me. 
I shall not detain you long. Were you in Santa Fe when 


A MEETING. 269 

the ladies of the Hericourt family set out for the United 
States ? It was just after the Major died.” 

“Yes, I recollect the circumstance perfectly,” Lamont 
replied unhesitatingly, although with some surprise. 
What could the Professor have to do with the Hericourts 
or their journey, he wondered. He glanced at his com- 
panion with evident curiosity, feeling a peculiar impres- 
sion of something unpleasant to come. 

“ Perhaps you can tell me who composed the party,” 
said the Professor. 

“ Certainly. Old Miss Hericourt went accompanied by 
her cousins, the Aldergroves,” replied Lamont, still specu- 
lating upon what possible interest this could have for his 
interlocutor. 

“ And Miss Cordelia Hericourt ? ” inquired the Professor 
eagerly. 

“ Miss Cordelia was too ill to go abroad, so she remained 
at the convent of Our Lady of Guadaloupe. I remember, 
as though it were yesterday, the day she went there,” said 
Lamont thoughtfully. “Old Miss Hericourt set out for 
France to obtain some money she and her niece had re- 
cently inherited. The Aldergroves intended to accom- 
pany her as far as Havre.” 

“ And have you ever heard of them since ^ Did Miss 
Hericourt get her fortune 

“ I do not know positively, but I have no reason to sup- 
pose otherwise,” said Lamont. “There is little possi- 
bility of failure in such matters where strict formalities 
have to be complied with.” 

“Then, you will be surprised at what I have to tell you,” 
said the Professor significantly. “ Miss Hericourt did not 
get the money. At least, there is every indication that 
she did not ; nor has her niece, Cordelia, received a penny 
of it.” 

“What do you mean .?” asked Lamont quickly. 


270 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


“Do you never read the ^Personal’ column in ^The 
Herald?’” inquired the Professor. “Is it possible you 
have seen no announcements of rewards offered for the 
recovery of Miss Hericourt, or for any information con- 
cerning her ? ” 

Lamont shook his head. “No,” he said wonderingly, 
“I have seen nothing of the kind. Is Miss Hericourt 
lost, or dead ? Please speak more clearly.” He was evi- 
dently agitated, and he looked at the Professor with pain- 
ful earnestness. 

“That is what we cannot discover,” said the Professor. 
“One of the ladies who crossed the plains disappeared 
mysteriously in the night. I journeyed in the same stage- 
coach with them, and they were partly under my charge. 
They represented themselves to be the two Hericourts 
and Mrs. Aldergrove. The lost lady was declared to be 
Mrs. Aldergrove, but many circumstances lead to the be- 
lief that it was Miss Hericourt. You know of the extraor- 
dinary likeness between them.” 

“Good heavens!” cried Lamont vehemently. “You 
surely cannot mean — no, that would be too horrible.” 
He sat gazing at the Professor with an expression of 
startled incredulity. 

“I see you understand me,” said the other gravely. 
“ My suspicions are well grounded, else I would not ven- 
ture to state them. The ladies travelled under assumed 
names. One disappeared, and nothing has since been 
heard of the others. I think the Aldergroves pushed old 
Miss Hericourt out of the stage, and went to France 
to obtain the money, representing themselves to be 
the rightful heirs. The peculiar resemblance between the 
cousins would make the deception an easy one to prac- 
tise.” 

Lamont shook his head in assent, but made no answer. 
He was overcome with horror by the Professor’s words, 


A ATE E TING. 


271 


and for a moment was too bewildered to speak. ‘‘ Surely,” 
he said presently, “this is only supposition. How can 
you know it positively .? ” 

“ Because a person calling herself Miss Hericourt has 
claimed and received the money, and yet no news can be 
obtained of her; nor has Cordelia received her share.” 

“ Then, you have seen Cordelia, — you know where she 
is.^” cried Lament, a sudden light coming into his eyes. 
Old Miss Hericourt and the Aldergroves faded completely 
away before the magic of this other name, and the vague 
hope called up by it. 

“ She has been in my house for two years,” said the 
Professor quietly. 

“Here — herein this house — now.?” Lamont closed 
his eyes, and for an instant the Professor seemed an indis- 
tinct form barely visible in the distance. There was a 
quick, joyous, ringing sound in his ears; and the Past, ris- 
ing slowly up, receded gradually, until but a tiny speck 
remained to mark its existence. 

“Yes,” he heard the Professor say in answer to his 
question. “ I met her by accident one day, and mistook 
her for the Miss Hericourt who had crossed the plains 
with me. I had the whole story then from her lips, — not 
the whole story exactly, for she has no suspicion of the 
Aldergroves’ villany. She thinks to this day, that some 
accident has happened to her aunt, — that she is dead, or 
so situated that she cannot communicate with her. I, of 
course, know better ; but I have never had the heart to 
undeceive the poor girl. Besides, what good would it do .? 
There is no chance of being able to make the truth public. 
I have advertised everywhere for the Aldergroves ; but they 
have disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened 
and swallowed them up, money and all.” 

Lamont scarcely noted the words, and yet every one of 
them fell distinctly upon his ear. Cordelia here ! Under 


2/2 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


the same roof with him ! Was he dreaming ? Was the 
Professor really sitting opposite ? Were the red glow of 
the firelight, the fantastic shadows dancing on the wall, 
and the pale rays which fell from the silver lamp, illusions 
all, or did he actually see them ? Outside, in the street, 
a procession was passing with a band of music. The 
strains from the instruments came to him like an echo 
afar off, as did also the heavy tramp of feet from the mob 
running along the sidewalk. In a few moments the 
sounds died entirely away ; and, raising his eyes, Lamont 
saw the Professor regarding him with a puzzled expression. 

“ So Cordelia is here,” he said, half to himself. “ I 
knew I should see her again.” 

He returned the Professor’s steady look with a smile. 
“You do not understand me, of course,” he said. “I will 
try to tell you what I mean. I knew Cordelia Hericourt 
well at one time. I was her confessor, and we were 
friends besides. But duty, in calling me away from the 
priesthood, called me also from her. I have never seen 
her since I left Santa Fe ; but many times, alone, and strug- 
gling slowly onward in a new career, I have thought of 
her, deserted by the ones who should carefully have 
guarded her, and cast among surroundings where a selfish 
interest was possibly ill concealed. It has come to me so 
forcibly at times, that I only wonder I thought so little of 
it when the matter was directly under my notice. You 
look at me in surprise ; but, since I renounced the priest- 
hood, many things have appeared to me in a light far 
different from that in which they formerly presented 
themselves. The position of Cordelia Hericourt is one of 
them. I wonder what sort of life she led in the convent 
after I left ! ” The somewhat mournful ring in his voice 
fell significantly upon the Professor’s ears. 

“ She has never spoken of her life there,” he answered. 
“It cannot be a pleasant subject.” 


A MEET/ JVC. 


273 


“No doubt — no doubt,” said Lamont reflectively, his 
thoughts going back to the Superior, whose disappoint- 
ment at receiving no money he could well imagine. 
“Cordelia had a noble nature,” he added, — “one not 
easily deterred from purposes marked out, and capable, 
also, of enduring much.” 

“I see that you know her well,” said the Professor, with 
a genial smile. “ I told you she had been with us for two 
years. During that time she has taught my little girl, 
and the result of her instruction need not be mentioned. 
Besides this, she has endeared herself to us in countless 
ways. We love her devotedly.” He spoke feelingly, and, 
Lamont knew, sincerely. 

“Yes,” he said presently. “Her character is an un- 
common one. When I knew her, she was, of course, much 
younger. I employ the term purposely ; for, although 
only two or three years have elapsed since we last met, I 
know she has lived longer than that in experience. Poor 
girl ! she has had a great deal to bear, but she doubtless 
has stood her trial bravely.” He lay back in his chair, 
overcome by a sensation he could scarcely define. More 
than ever he wondered whether this scene, so vivid, so 
unexpected and emotional, could be real. His own calm- 
ness amazed him. How was it possible, that after so 
many years of patient waiting, sustained by a hope that 
threatened never to be realized, he could sit quietly here 
in the Professor’s drawing-room, knowing that Cordelia 
was beneath the same roof, — that she was separated from 
him by a mere partition of brick and plaster.^ What man- 
ner of man had he become ? Was his love dead ^ Had 
it spent itself in vain longing ? Had so much of it been 
poured forth in prayer and solitude, that nothing remained 
to be laid at Cordelia’s feet ? He did not know. He was 
only conscious of a feeling of intense happiness. He 
would have asked nothing better than to remain alone in 


274 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


this room, and bask in the present, whose broad day 
caused the shadows of the past to disappear. Surely, life 
is composed of a succession of existences, which spring 
forth, and then die to give place to others, like the plant 
continually putting forward leaves and shoots of tender 
green to bloom a while, and fade. 

“ I must take you into my confidence somewhat, if not 
altogether,” said the Professor in a few moments. “Miss 
Cordelia, as I have intimated, knows nothing of my suspi- 
cions. In fact, I have revealed them to no one except 
yourself, — not even to my wife. Many times I have been 
on the point of telling all ; but something, I know not what, 
prevented me. I suspected that all was not as it should 
be between the ladies, before we had been two days on the 
road ; but I could not understand precisely what consti- 
tuted the trouble. I remember speaking about it to a man 
named Glatz, who laughed at me, and called me an idiot. 
The affair had almost passed from my mind, when the 
accidental meeting with Miss Cordelia, and the recital of 
her story, brought it and much more forcibly before me. 
By the by, here is something which I should like you to 
examine.” He rose, and, going toward a small ebony 
cabinet which stood in a corner of the room, unlocked 
one of its drawers, and drew therefrom an object which 
he handed to Lamont. 

“ A handkerchief ! Is it connected in any way with 
the journey.^” asked the latter, smoothing it upon his 
knee. 

“The only trace we could obtain of the missing lady, 
besides a small piece of crape from her veil,” said the 
Professor, leaning on the back of Lamont’s chair, “ It 
was lying in the road, and I picked it up near the spot 
where she must have fallen from the stage. Do you 
observe any peculiarity about it ? ” 

“Nothing except this black border,” said Lamont, look- 


A MEETING. 


275 

ing at it carefully. “ Ah ! ” he exclaimed, ‘‘ there is a 
name here, — that of Miss Anastasia Hericourt.” 

“ Precisely,” said the Professor, regarding him from over 
his gold-rimmed spectacles : “ that is what I wanted you to 
see. Does it make the matter any clearer to you } Does 
it, in short, point to the missing lady } ” 

“ I could not have believed it possible,” said Lament, in 
a horrified whisper. 

“To my mind,” continued the Professor, “this handker- 
chief proves that the Aldergroves tried to murder Miss 
Hericourt in order to obtain her money and Cordelia’s.” 

“No: not murder, surely,” Lament replied quickly. 
“ They may have pushed her out, — probably they did so, 
but hardly with the intention of killing her. A fall from 
a stage could not kill her.” 

“Then, they hoped the Indians would capture her, which 
amounts to the same thing,” said the Professor decidedly. 
“ Indeed, this must really have happened ; as no sign of 
her was visible anywhere, and Indian trails were plentiful.” 

“ How horrible ! And you say nothing whatever can be 
learned in regard to the matter .J*” 

“ Nothing. We have advertised, offered rewards, and 
employed detectives, but without result. The Hericourt 
affair is still shrouded in mystery, — to Cordelia, at least ; 
for, so far as I am concerned, there is no mystery about 
it. The Aldergroves are the people I want to find. But 
no trace of them can be discovered. They are probably 
abroad, living under an assumed name. Is it plain to you } 
Do you not see the whole thing } ” 

“ Alas ! I fear I do,” said Lamont. “ The Aldergroves 
never inspired me with confidence, but I hardly thought 
them so depraved as you haye inade them out to be.” He 
sat for a moment in silence. “Would it be asking too 
much if I expressed a wish to see Miss Hericourt.?” he 
said finally. “Will you send for her.? Do not say who 


2/6 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


IS here, but ask her to come. We used to be friends 
once, and if she has not forgotten me” — He spoke in 
hardly audible tones, and with averted gaze, as though 
unwilling to meet the Professor’s searching glance. 

Of course you shall see her,” said the latter, rising, 
should have sent for her already, had I not, first of 
all, desired to speak with you privately. One word more 
before I go. Pray, do not mention all that we know of 
the matter. It can do no good, and would only serve to 
make the girl anxious. She shall be told every thing 
when the proper time comes.” 

“You can trust me,” said Lamont, rising also, and 
answering the Professor’s look frankly. “ She shall hear 
nothing from me other than she already knows.” 

The Professor smiled approvingly, shook him by the 
hand, and then left the room. Lamont resumed his seat, 
and listened to the heavy tread ascending the staircase. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A LIGHT BREAKS UPON CORDELIA. 

“ A Lucca ti vidi, a Pisa ti conobbi." 

For several moments Lament did not move. He closed 
his eyes, and tried to collect his thoughts; but the air 
seemed filled with voices which interrupted his meditation 
with discordant sounds. The clock on the mantel-piece 
struck ten, and the final stroke reverberated throughout 
the room with a faint echo. Over the dial. Spring was 
represented by the gilt figure of a maiden. With one 
hand she held up the drapery of her robe, from the folds 
of which peeped a number of flowers. The other hand 
clasped a nosegay, that was pressed against her smiling 
lips, and appeared to send forth some of its fragrance into 
the atmosphere. 

Lament took a book from the table presently, and read 
a page or two ; but the words conveyed no meaning to 
him : so he threw the volume aside, and, rising, paced the 
floor slowly. Certainly, the coming moment would be an 
episode in his life, the memory of which, whether for good 
or ill, would never leave him. He sought to picture to 
himself what Cordelia would be like. Should he find her 
changed ? Had time softened her feelings toward him ? 
The letter she had written to him just before his depar- 
ture from Santa Fe was in his pocket now, and had been 
carried there ever since its receipt. He placed his hand 

277 


278 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


against his breast, and felt the paper with a touch that 
was almost caressing. Ah, no ! he, at least, had not for- 
gotten. His love was yet alive. He wished for the moment 
it were otherwise, — that the years which had rolled by 
slowly, obliterating in their passage so much, could have 
deadened, to some extent, the intensity of his passion for 
Cordelia. But it was not so. 

He thought of this with a desperate resignation not 
devoid of bitterness. How intently had he longed for 
peace ! For how many weary months had he striven to 
find happiness in the mere fulfilment of duty ! And now, 
just when his efforts bade fair to prove successful, he saw 
himself, as it were, hurled back into the very whirlpool 
from which he had sought to escape. But even in the 
contemplation of this was a joy so profound, that he felt 
willing to give up much in order to experience it for a 
brief space of time. 

He drew near to the door presently, and listened for the 
sound of Cordelia’s footstep. All was silent, save for 
the monotonous ticking of the gilt clock, above whose dial 
the figure of Spring held up her blossom-laden robe. 
Could Cordelia have known who waited to receive her in 
that dimly lighted drawing-room, would she not have has- 
tened } 

He listened again with feverish expectancy, and detected 
at last the faint rustle of a woman’s gown trailing over the 
stairs. Nearer it came, and still nearer. He withdrew 
farther into the room, holding his hands pressed tightly 
together. Would the door never open ? Had the step 
passed on } No : a gentle touch was at that moment on 
the knob, and then Cordelia entered. 

She came forward with an inquiring glance, as though 
expecting to meet a stranger. Her dress of plain black, 
relieved by a kerchief of white muslin crossed upon her 
breast, fell in straight folds to the floor ; and her dark hair 


A LIGHT BREAK’S UPON CORDELIA. 2/9 

was simply knotted at the back of her head. Lament’s 
impatient eyes noted all this at a glance, and saw, too, the 
sudden change which overspread her features as she rec- 
ognized him. 

“You.^ You here ” she said, drawing back, with a 
searching look into his face. “ How is it possible ? ” She 
uttered the words wonderingly, regarding him as' if hesi- 
tating to believe the testimony of her own senses. 

“ It is I, Cordelia ; and you have not forgotten me ! ” he 
exclaimed, starting forward with outstretched hand. ‘‘I 
still occupy a place in your memory, is it not so } ” 

“ Forgotten you ! ” Cordelia shook her head, and smiled. 
Something seemed to penetrate Lament’s heart like a ray 
of warm sunshine. 

“ How did you come here, if indeed it be really you ? ” 
she asked earnestly. “ I cannot be dreaming, for I feel 
the warm clasp of your hand ; and yet I do not understand 
it.” 

‘‘I do not wonder at your astonishment,” he said ; “but 
it is really I, Paul Lament, nevertheless. It is strange 
that we should meet thus after so long a separation. Is 
it fate, Cordelia ? ” he added, smiling. 

“ I know nothing of fate, but I am happy in seeing you 
again,” she answered. “ Will you believe me when I say 
your face is the only pleasant thing remaining of the past ? 
It is what I think of and recall when I am sad.” 

“It must be your generosity which makes you speak 
so,” he said gravely. “For I never brought you a mo- 
ment’s happiness. On the contrary, I did much to grieve 
you, and fill your pure mind with distrust.” 

“ Let me tell you something,” she said quickly. “ Per- 
haps you will not care to hear it now: but my friendship 
— the old friendship, I mean — came back to me after you 
were gone ; and, since then, contemplation and experience 
have strengthened it. Have you ever forgiven me for my 


28 o 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


injustice toward you? You do not know how it has since 
preyed upon my mind, and how I have longed to see you, 
only that I might tell you of it. Besides ” — She hesi- 
tated, and turned her head aside irresolutely. 

“ Cordelia, say no more, I implore you,” cried Lament. 
“You never did me wrong. You have nothing to regret, 
nor have I any thing to overlook. If at one time we did 
not understand each other fully, that time is past and 
gone. We meet now, I hope, having each grown some- 
what in knowledge of the other ; and I stretch toward you 
for the second time the hand of fellowship. Will you take 
it ? It is more deeply lined, perhaps, than when your 
slender fingers first clasped it ; but its pressure is a true 
one.” 

“You are too generous,” she said, not without emotion. 
“ But, if repentance can excuse my fault, it has been con- 
doned long ago.” She regarded him earnestly for a 
moment, and then, dropping his hand, seated herself in an 
easy-chair by the fire, inviting him to a place opposite. 

“You have not told me how you came to be here,” she 
said, after a short silence. 

“ Did I not ? I have so much to say, that, doubtless, I 
forgot to explain my presence. I came to see Professor 
Hoveden on a matter of business. I met him once in 
Santa Fe at your house, and naturally we spoke of it. In 
the course of the conversation I learned that you were 
here, and you can imagine my pleasure ; for, when I left 
you at Our Lady of Guadaloupe, I never thought my eyes 
would rest again upon your face. Chance plays an impor- 
tant ro/e in our lives, does it not?” He became suddenly 
grave, and spoke the last words in a tone of reflection. 

“ And did he tell you why I was here ? ” asked Cordelia, 
without replying to his question. “ Do you know what 
has befallen me, — that I am alone in the world, and de- 
prived of my fortune ? ” 


A LIGHT BREAKS UPON CORDELIA. 


281 


*‘Yes,” he answered simply. ‘‘I learned the story this 
evening. But you take the matter as it should be taken. 
I am glad to see this. Besides, you are contented here, 
if not absolutely happy ; and your life is a peaceful one.” 

‘‘ Could it fail to be so among such kind friends as I 
have found } ” she asked with a smile. 

“The Professor seems to be a man of noble impulse,” 
said Lament. “ You could not, I think, have a more fit- 
ting guardian than he. But tell me about your life at the 
convent after I left. Did the Superior” — He stopped 
abruptly, and then added, “You know I obtained some 
insight into her nature toward the last, and I have since 
feared her interest may not have been purely unselfish. 
How did she act when she discovered you had no 
money ” 

“We will not talk of it,” replied Cordelia hastily. 
“Whatever happened bears no relation to the present, 
and I have so much to be thankful for that I need not 
dwell upon trifles.” 

“ I understand,” he said gravely. Then, after a pause, 
he continued, “ Did she ever speak of me } Did she ever 
view my conduct with more softness- and lenity ” 

“ She spoke of you occasionally, but her thoughts about 
you remained unchanged. She is not one whose opinions 
in such a matter could be easily altered.” 

“And the Bishop,” Lamont inquired eagerly. “Did 
he finally forgive me?” 

“ I do not know,” said Cordelia. “ I think he spoke of 
you once to the Superior, but the conversation was not 
repeated to me.” 

There was silence for a few moments, during which 
Lamont seemed plunged in thought. The clock ticked 
steadily on ; and the figure of Spring continued to smile, 
with her gilt nosegay pressed to her lips. A painful still- 
ness reigned without, broken now and then by the noise 


282 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


of a passing carriage ; and the fire, which but a moment 
before had blazed brightly up into the faces of the two 
figures seated beside it, died suddenly away, leaving only 
a heap of red embers. 

“You have told me nothing of yourself,” said Cordelia 
presently. “What life have you led since we parted.? 
You have, perhaps, endured hardship; while I” — 

“No: I have been fortunate enough,” he interrupted. 
“For a long time, it is true, matters looked somewhat 
hopeless ; but I have no reason to complain. I could not 
enter a profession, because I lacked the means required 
for study ; but I had my books and my pen, and I made 
use of both.” 

“You are a journalist, then .? ” 

“No; but I write special articles sometimes for the 
papers and magazines.” 

“ And can you live by this .? ” 

“ Live ! surely,” he said, with a smile. “ Luxuries I 
have not, of course ; but I am comfortable enough. Be- 
sides, every year grows brighter. The future is full of 
promise.” 

“How our lives are changed!” said Cordelia. “And 
yet neither of us would willingly return to the old exist- 
ence, I am sure. You have never regretted the step you 
took .? ” 

“Not the step itself, but other things, perhaps,” said 
Lamont carelessly. “ Still, is not this inevitable .? ” 

“Yes: I have learned that among other things. Do 
you find me much altered .? ” 

“In some respects, yes,” Lamont answered after a 
moment’s consideration. “You are more mature, and I 
think your character has developed wonderfully. You 
have taken rapid strides onward, Cordelia ; and I can see 
how suffering has served to accomplish this end. It has 
been the same with me also, to some extent. I never 


A LIGHT BREAKS UPON CORDELIA. 283 

discovered how much I had to learn until ” — He checked 
himself abruptly. “ It is apt to be the case with natures 
of a certain kind,” he continued calmly. “They lie dor- 
mant, like the chrysalis in its shell, until some incident, 
trifling enough doubtless, causes them to spring forth, 
winged, and ready for flight. We can truthfully say we 
only then begin to live.” 

“Yes, you are right,” said Cordelia. “But you appear 
unchanged to me. You are now just as you were long 
ago when I first knew you. Perhaps your face has lost 
a little of its healthy glow, and your eyes have become 
more thoughtful than they used to be ; but that is 
all.” 

She looked at him earnestly, and Lament felt the influ- 
ence of the glance. It was unlike any she had ever given 
him in the early days of their friendship, and for an in- 
stant he felt his pulse bound with sudden joy. Was it 
possible that she cared for him } Was a new trial to be 
added to his already heavy burden.^ Fortunately, he did 
not know, that, since their parting, Cordelia had idealized 
him into something partaking of a divine rather than of 
an earthly character. He looked at her intently, — into 
her eyes filled with a happy light, and at the smile on her 
lips. No, it could not be. He would be spared this 
pain.- She was glad to see him: he was still her friend, 
and the only thing remaining to her of happy days passed 
long ago. But this was all. He was sure of it, and 
thankful that it was so. Why, then, did he sigh, and 
become suddenly grave 

“ You will let me come to see you occasionally, will you 
not } ” he asked Anally. “ And, if I can be of assistance 
to the Professor in helping to discover some news of your 
aunt, it will give me pleasure.” 

“ I shall always be glad to see you,” she answered sim- 
ply. “As for the other, I thank you; but I fear it would 


284 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


be a useless undertaking. I have given up all hope of 
finding my aunt, or recovering my fortune. It does not 
matter much. I am earning my living honestly, and I 
have a pleasant home among friends. You have come 
now, and I need nothing more. I am satisfied.” 

There was a tenderness in her tone which struck him 
forcibly, and which he could not account for. 

“ There is wisdom in what you say, at all events,” he 
said, smiling. “ But I think the search should be carried 
out, nevertheless.” 

“ So does the Professor ; and he is still making inqui- 
ries, I believe. But, for my part, I have grown indifferent 
to the whole affair. I let the search go on, however, 
merely to please the Professor, who takes an immense 
interest in it. He is very sanguine, and has always looked 
upon me as a sort of victim.” 

“ So you are,” said Lament, who was thinking of the 
Aldergroves. “ But see,” he added, “ how late it is. The 
clock has already struck eleven, and I must leave you. 
Once more let me tell you how much this meeting has 
been to me. It has made me younger, I think, and bright- 
ened the present wonderfully.” He rose, and, taking her 
hand in his, looked long and earnestly into her eyes. He 
fancied her voice trembled a little as she bade him good- 
night, but he was perhaps mistaken. When he had gone, 
however, she threw herself into a chair, and, burying her 
face in both hands, remained sitting thus for some time. 
Twelve strokes chimed forth from the gilt clock and the 
last spark in the grate died suddenly out. Yet Spring 
smiled on, holding up her flower-laden drapery ; while the 
silver lamp at the far end of the room continued to shed 
its quivering yellow light on the floor. 

At last Cordelia raised her head, glancing at the vacant 
chair opposite, as if half expecting to see Lament still sit- 
ting there. Tears shone in her eyes, and now they began 


A LIGHT BREAKS UPON CORDELIA, 285 

to roll slowly down her cheeks. She rose impatiently, and 
wiped them away. 

“ Of what use is it to weep } ” she asked herself. “ He 
no longer cares. I am nothing to him but a painful recol- 
lection, while he” — 

She went no farther. Her perplexed mind was filled 
by a single thought which had entered there, and become 
at once so deeply rooted that expulsion was impossible. 

“What have I done, what have I done,” she cried bro- 
kenly, “ that this of all things should happen to me t ” 

For a moment she appeared overcome by a wild despair. 
But in a little while she recovered herself, and with trem- 
bling fingers extinguished the lamp. The room became 
suddenly enveloped in darkness ; but she groped her way 
to the door, and, opening it, let in a flood of light from 
the hall. There was silence throughout the house. All 
had doubtless retired for the night. 

Cordelia went slowly up the staircase, the sombre folds 
of her black dress lightly sweeping the crimson carpet. 
Lament had come again into her life, but under aspects 
how changed. 

What would be the result, she wondered. 


CHAPTER XXXL 


PERPLEXITY. 

“ I would I could adopt your will, 

See with your eyes, and set my heart 
Beating by yours, and drink my fill 
At your soul’s springs, — your part, my part. 

In life, for good and ill.” 

Robert Browning. 

^‘You were doubtless surprised to see Padre Lamont 
again,” said the Professor to Cordelia, as the family sat at 
breakfast the next morning. 

“Yes and no,” she answered. “ It was unexpected, of 
course. I was at a loss to imagine who my visitor could 
be ; but, at the same time, it seemed natural to enter the 
room, and find him there.” 

“ It must have been a pleasure as well as a surprise,” 
said Mrs. Hoveden. “Yet,” she added, looking fixedly at 
Cordelia, “you do not appear to be in your usual good 
spirits this morning. The meeting, I hope, called up no 
painful reminiscences.” 

“On the contrary,” said Cordelia, flushing a little, “it 
has given me many pleasant things to think about.” She 
smiled as if to enforce her statement, but it was clearly an 
effort to do so. 

“You must not be sad, dear Miss Hericourt,” cried 
Elfrida from the opposite side of the table. “ After les- 
sons I shall show you something to make you laugh. Mary 

286 


PERPLEXITY. 287 

laughed this morning. Did you not hear her while you 
were dressing ” 

“ No, dear,” said Cordelia, her eyes resting with fond 
interest upon the quaint little figure in its still quainter 
dress. “ But you shall make me laugh if you like.” 

“The sun never looks sad,” said Elfrida. “When he 
feels bad, he goes away altogether, and hides himself be- 
hind a big cloud where no one can see him.” She shook 
her long light curls, laughing merrily. 

“You are too childish for one of your age, Elfrida,” said 
Mrs. Hoveden. “ Miss Hericourt must make you more 
sedate.” 

“ No : I shall not try to change her,” replied Cordelia. 
“ Let her be natural so long as she will. She will grow 
serious in time, — too soon, I fear. What should you like 
to be when you grow up, Elfrida } ” 

“I shall dance in the circus,” said the child, with a 
roguish look at her governess. “ I shall have a white 
gown, with a rose-colored bodice, and wear a wreath of 
flowers. The music will play; and I shall dance, — oh, 
how I shall dance ! Will you come to see me. Miss Heri- 
court ? 

“Surely,” said Cordelia : “we will all come.” 

“Did you find your friend changed .^” inquired the Pro- 
fessor, putting aside the paper he had been attentively 
reading. 

“A little more thoughtful, perhaps, but otherwise the 
same. I did not remember that you and he had once met. 
I recall the circumstance now, however.” 

“ He seems to be a man of exceptional ability, and great 
force of character. He renounced the priesthood on ac- 
count of conscientious scruples, I believe.” 

Cordelia again changed color. “ He was not fitted for 
the life,” she said, evading a direct reply. “ Once con- 
vinced of his mistake, he was not to be deterred from his 


28^ 


A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE. 


purpose of leaving the priesthood. His resolutions are 
never hastily formed ; but, when conceived to be right, they 
remain fixed and unalterable. Of course, it was a terrible 
blow to the whole Catholic community when his intention 
became known. I do not think the Bishop ever forgave 
him.” 

“I can well believe that,” said the Professor, with a 
peculiar smile. “And you ? How did you take it ? You, 
as a Roman Catholic, must have been highly incensed 
also.” 

“Yes,” said Cordelia with a sigh. “It seemed very 
dreadful to me. He came himself to tell me of it. It was 
just after my illness, when the fever had left me weak and 
irritable. The Superior of the convent, who knew all, re- 
fused to admit him to my presence. While they were 
deep in discussion, I happened to enter the room ; and he 
pleaded so earnestly for an interview, that I consented to 
grant him one, notwithstanding the Superior’s entreaties 
to the contrary. I am sure she never forgot it, but I was 
not sorry for having acted as I did.” 

“ He told you the whole story, I suppose.^” 

“Yes; and I received it, I fear, in a very uncharitable 
spirit. I was younger then, and my religious ideas rather 
narrow.” 

“ But you are a good Catholic still,” said the Professor : 
“you go regularly to mass and to confession, do you not ? ” 

“ Yes, and I would not lose my faith for any thing in the 
World. Lamont is a good Catholic, too, in spite of what 
he did. I shall always regret his act, but it is not for me 
to judge him. Judgment of that sort should come from a 
higher source. Besides, he was a true friend to me. I 
x:onfess that I forgot this for a while. The revelation he 
made to me filled me with horror ; but, upon reflection, 
I saw how wrong I was, and regretted my hasty words. I 
had no means of telling him so, however, as he left Santa 


PERPLEXITY. 


289 


Fe almost immediately. I have never seen him since until 
last evening, and yet I have always felt that we should 
meet again.” 

Cordelia was conscious of an absence of frankness in 
thus speaking of her relations with Lamont, and the 
thought worried her. Her honest nature cried out against 
this partial withholding of the truth, but she felt powerless 
to remedy it. How could she say to these friends that 
Lamont had loved her, — that this very love had been 
instrumental in causing him to renounce his vows } Still 
less could she tell them of his firm determination never to 
make her his wife, and of the possibility of his love be- 
longing now wholly to the past. 

“ I suppose there was great excitement in Santa Fe for 
a time,” said the Professor musingly. I fancy I can see 
the Mexicans showering invectives upon the poor man’s 
head, and perhaps expressing their feelings even more 
forcibly.” 

“Yes,” said Cordelia gravely. “You will hardly believe 
me when I say that the Superior and I met Lamont one 
morning at the entrance of the plaza, whither he had been 
driven by an infuriated mob, — by people who knew him 
only by the good work he had accomplished among them. 
It was a sad scene, — one that I shall never forget.” 

“Is it possible that such a thing really occurred.?” ex- 
claimed the Professor. “ How did he bear it .? ” 

“They had even resorted to personal violence,” said 
Cordelia, her eyes glowing with indignation at the recol- 
lection. “ But he retained his natural dignity, and spoke 
calmly to them. Indeed, nothing, I think, could ever make 
Lamont lose his dignity. He has an air of superiority 
that never leaves him, and which is very impressive. I 
admire him more every time I think of that experience 
and the lesson it taught.” 

“And you meet again now, for the first time since then,” 


290 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


said Mrs. Hoveden. “ How interesting ! you have doubt- 
less much in common.” 

“More now than formerly, perhaps,” Cordelia answered. 
“I think association with him some years ago did much 
toward forming my character and opinions. A young girl 
who is thrown constantly with a stronger and maturer 
nature than her own is apt to imitate unconsciously. At 
all events, I feel more in sympathy with his ideas now than 
I did when I first knew him.” 

“ A fine nature to be in sympathy with, I am sure,” said 
the Professor. “ He interests me greatly.” 

. Cordelia colored, and for an instant a more animated 
expression came over her face. 

“You like him very much. Miss H^ricourt,” said Elfrida, 
who, with arms crossed upon the table, had been listening 
attentively to the conversation. “ I like him too ; and, 
when he comes again, I shall put on my white gown with 
the blue ribbons, and dance for him. That would please 
him, would it not } ” 

“Very much, dear,” said Cordelia, smiling at the child’s 
happy face. “ He is fond of pretty little girls.” 

Elfrida clapped her hands. “When will he come 1 ” she 
cried, rising from the table, and shaking her soft, flaxen 
curls. “ When will he come 1 ” 

“You annoy Miss Hericourt with your questions, 
Elfrida,” said Mrs. Hoveden. “ Pray, be quiet.” 

“But I must know,” persisted Elfrida, “so that I can 
ask Mary to dress me in time. Tell me. Miss Hericourt, 
when will he come ” 

“ I do not know, dear,” said Cordelia, rising also, and 
putting her arm about the child ; “ but I will let you know 
when he is here, and he shall not go until you have seen 
him. Will that do .? ” 

“Yes, yes, that will do. I shall show him the new 
step I learned the other day. Do you think he will be 
pleased .? ” 


PERPLEXITY. 


291 


She ran from the room without waiting for an answer ; 
and her merry, childish laugh came back to them from 
the floor above. 

The Professor rose, and, folding his newspaper, made 
preparations to go to his college. 

“Your friend spoke much of you and your family,” he 
said to Cordelia. “He was altogether ignorant of what 
had occurred. Of course, he told you about our conver- 
sation.” 

“Yes: he was greatly astonished and shocked. He 
offered his assistance in making inquiries about my aunt, 
but I declined them. I have given up all hope,” she 
added seriously. 

“ I have not,” said the Professor, “ nor do I intend to. 
It will be right in time. Miss Hericourt : mark my words.” 
He smiled again in his peculiar way, and presently left 
the room. 

“ I never knew him to be so sanguine over any thing,” 
said Mrs. Hoveden. “I cannot understand it.” 

“Nor I,” Cordelia replied abstractedly. Her thoughts 
had reverted once more to Lament, and the other’s words 
were hardly appreciated. The knowledge which had come 
to her so suddenly the evening before seemed to place her 
in the midst of a new existence. But how cruel an exist- 
ence it was ! Here, indeed, were no broad, easy paths, — 
no glimpse of a bright future beyond. All she saw was 
a life of pain and hopelessness. She wished that Lament 
had not come, — that he had left her in peaceful ignorance 
of the true state of her feelings. And yet this meeting had 
given her so intense a pleasure, that the mere recollection 
served to bring to her eyes a light not often seen therein. 

She went away presently to give Elfrida her lessons, 
and throughout the day performed her duties in the usual 
manner. But something was lacking to her content, and 
in place of it was a vague feeling of unrest. Her thoughts 


292 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


wandered involuntarily into a region of happy possibilities, 
returning finally from the ideal to the actual with an in- 
crease of sadness. She wondered whether such unfortu- 
nate experiences as had befallen her were incidental to 
every life. Was each face that crossed her path a mask ? 
Were the varied personalities she met with but so many 
coverings for perplexed minds and troubled hearts } Was 
any one happy } Or, did all alike, the rich and the poor, 
the prosperous and the luckless, the learned and the igno- 
Irant, lack the one attribute, or more, perhaps, leading to 
enjoyment } But how could she, being alive, hope to es- 
cape sorrow It is only the vain egotist who thinks to find 
in himself the remedy for every ill, or else the perfectly 
unselfish nature which finds its best reason for living in 
the contemplation of others. But these extremes are 
rare : the latter, indeed, may be said to belong to a future 
age. And Cordelia was only a girl, with a girl’s sensitive 
feelings. 

Could she have looked into Lamont’s heart as she 
looked into her own, she would have had no cause, per- 
haps, for either sorrow or discomfort. But human beings 
are doomed to play at cross-purposes with each other for- 
ever. We are made up largely of pride and sensibility, 
and therefore can rarely speak the right word, or leave the 
wrong one unsaid. We are blind when we have greatest 
need of our eyes, and dumb when utterance alone can set 
us free. 

In Cordelia’s close observance of Lamont, she had 
thought to see merely a calm, pleasant interest, — friend- 
ship, possibly, of a lukewarm kind, — but nothing more, 
so far as she was concerned. In the old days she had 
considered him too demonstrative. Now, of course, the 
fancied change in his manner was due solely to her own 
altered feelings ; but she naturally did not recognize this 
fact. 


PERPLEXITY. 


293 


And so she waited patiently for his next visit with a 
heavy heart, gazing blankly before her, and trying to dis- 
cover the twinkling of some friendly star in the gray 
shadows that rolled up before her. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


PARTED. 

And truly it demands something godlike in him who has cast off the common mo- 
tives of humanity, and has ventured to trust himself for a taskmaster.’’ — Emerson. 

After this first strange meeting, Lament came often 
to see Cordelia ; -and, by degrees, the slight reserve which 
held them both under its sway vanished, and left them 
natural and unrestrained. It cannot be said that Cordelia 
was utterly unhappy after the knowledge of her love for 
Lamont had come to her. She never doubted the entire 
hopelessness of her passioij ; but she was satisfied to ac- 
cept the present gratefully, to fully enjoy Lamont’s com- 
panionship, to receive his advice, and to look up to him 
as a being nobler and better than herself. She was not 
one to grow mournful over the impossibility to accomplish 
the impossible. In the beginning, overcome by disappoint- 
ment, she had seen little in life worth living for ; but she 
had too healthy an organization to allow her higher nature 
to lie dormant for any length of time, and gradually she 
regained some of her former cheerfulness. It must not 
be supposed from this, that her feelings had become cold, 
or that Lamont’s fancied change of sentiment had caused 
her affection to lose any of its force. She merely expe- 
rienced the calmness which succeeds all excess of emotion, 
and which is particularly apt to distinguish naturally un- 
emotional temperaments. The love which, through want 


PARTED. 


295 


of satisfaction, loses its power of reasoning, belongs only 
to weak minds ; and Cordelia certainly was not weak. Of 
sentiment she had plenty, but there was nothing maudlin 
about it. It may, indeed, be questioned whether true sen- 
timent does not bring forth the best qualities of a fine 
character, and lend it both strength and grace. Be this 
as it may, however, she soon recovered from the momentary 
shock her meeting with Lament had called forth ; and it 
took its place in her recollection, together with regrets of 
various kinds. 

As for Lament, if he suspected what was passing in her 
mind, it was never made apparent. His conversations 
with Cordelia were sometimes almost formal, and he dis- 
played no evidences of the love he had once professed. 
It would be difficult to fathom the precise feelings which 
possessed him. Perhaps his old notions of honesty, a 
trifle exaggerated, were still deeply rooted. But, in spite 
of this, any casual observer might have seen that his in- 
terest in Cordelia was no ordinary one. He seemed to 
gather as much delight from their meetings as she did ; 
and, although he rarely descended to personalities, the 
little he did say was marked by genuine feeling. 

Cordelia often parted from him greatly puzzled. He 
was a man of varied moods, and seldom appeared twice 
under the same aspect. In this respect, he was much 
changed from the Lament of the past ; and the character- 
istic daily became intensified. Sometimes he talked bril- 
liantly upon many subjects, and, in the midst of a smile, 
became suddenly grave and silent, as if a sad recollection 
had chilled his fancy. Cordelia found him often incom- 
prehensible, but at the same time they were congenial 
companions and steadfast friends. He would occasionally 
bring a book to her, and read from it aloud in his clear, 
sonorous tones ; while Cordelia, listening with half-closed 
eyes, imagined herself to be sitting once more among the 


296 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


sombre shadows of the Mexican cathedral, where Lamont, 
clad in his gold-embroidered robes, had recited the mass. 
But other thoughts always intruded themselves upon these. 
Perhaps, as he read, little Elfrida, with streaming yellow 
locks, and daintily slippered feet, would come dancing 
into the room ; and Cordelia’s visions vanished. 

Then Lamont would speak to the child in his earnest 
way, which, however, made slight impression ujDon her 
volatile spirits. It was only when he related some weird 
story coined from his imagination that she sometimes 
listened with wide-opened, astonished eyes, breaking into 
a laugh, and clapping her tiny hands when he had finished. 

After the child had gone, leaving them once more alone, 
he would generally shake off his grave mood, and talk, for 
a time, with animation. 

Winter had passed in the mean while, and spring was 
already advanced. ' The tree which stood before the Pro- 
fessor’s house was thickly studded with long white blos- 
soms ; and, through the branches, pale sunbeams made 
their way into some of the rooms. There was a grass-plot 
before the drawing-room windows, in the middle of which 
bloomed a tall lilac-bush ; and a few roses climbed over 
the iron railing which separated the little garden from the 
street. 

It was a quiet part of the city wherein the Professor 
had chosen to live, although at the present day it nearly 
forms the very heart of the business centre : not far dis- 
tant lay the Hudson River, gleaming in the sunshine dur- 
ing the day, and in the evening forming a bluish-gray line 
between the hills on the opposite bank and the city. Cor- 
delia and Lamont sometimes walked down to the water’s 
edge late in the afternoon, when the sky, suffused with 
sunset tints of scarlet, cast a ruddy reflection upon the 
river. The scene was quite animated there generally. 
Many people came and went, some laughing and talking 


PARTED. 


297 


■gayly ; and children amused themselves by throwing stones 
into the water, watching, with delight and wonder, the 
widening circles produced upon the rippling surface. 

Lament spoke often of Santa Fe, seeming to take pleas- 
ure in recalling various incidents relating to his life there; 
and Cordelia would listen with interest. She never told 
him of the Superior’s behavior, and that of the sisters, when 
it became known at the convent that no money was to be 
forthcoming for the new order, or any thing else. Lamont 
had, nevertheless, gathered a part of the truth from her 
evident unwillingness to discuss the matter, and had 
formed his own conclusions. 

“ It was a brave step to leave Our Lady of Guadaloupe, 
and come East alone in search of your aunt,” he said to 
her one day, as they sat together in the drawing-room. 
‘‘Did the Superior offer no objection to your so doing 

“Oh, no!” Cordelia answered: “she made no effort to 
prevent my going. I was of no use in the convent ; and, 
since there was no means of instituting the order, why 
should I have remained.^ Besides, my duty was clear.” 

“Do you not think every thing has happened for the 
best, after all } For my part, I have never enjoyed life so 
thoroughly as since I met you here, Cordelia. It has been 
worth some sacrifices, and I am ready to make others for 
the sake of remaining as I am now. What is your opin- 
ion.?” 

He rarely spoke in this tone, and Cordelia looked up in 
some surprise to meet the smile on his lips. 

“Surely,” she said with a heightened color, “I have no 
reason for complaint. Of course, there are moments in 
every life when matters look dark, and even hopeless ; but 
such moments cannot last. Nothing of that kind endures 
for long, and perhaps we are the better for having suffered. 
My meeting with you has given me much that I had lost 
all expectation of possessing. I have your companion- 


298 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


ship, your sympathy, your friendship. Is it not a great 
deal " 

She glanced at him earnestly, and Lament thought to 
perceive in the expression something that was not usual. 

“ How can I thank you for such words ^ ” he exclaimed. 
“They are genuine, I know. We now understand each 
other perfectly, I think. There could be no distrust, no 
doubt, between us, could there, Cordelia 1 ” 

“No,” she said sadly. “I think not, — nay, I am sure 
of it.” 

He looked at her with some curiosity. “There seems 
to be a regret underlying your very words of satisfaction,” 
he said. “ Am I right } If so, speak to me openly, and 
let me try to remove it.” 

“There is no regret,” she answered. “I am apt to be 
serious when I talk to you, because you are so ; and my 
manner is generally a reflection of your own. When you 
occasionally laugh, I am gay ; and silent or reserved if you 
look at me thoughtfully, as you do now.” 

Lamont did not reply at once ; but he rose, and walked 
to the window. His back was toward her ; and for some 
time he remained standing thus, absorbed apparently in 
reflection. Of what was he thinking, she wondered } He 
was not looking into the street ; for his head was bowed, 
and his eyes fixed upon the floor. The afternoon was 
quickly fading into twilight, and the forms passing in front 
of the house were indistinct and dark. When Lamont at 
last turned, and approached her, she could not observe his 
expression minutely, but something in his manner struck 
her at once. 

“ Cordelia,” he said in a low tone, standing before her, 
“have you forgotten.?” This was all; but she felt the 
blood rush suddenly to her face, and then ebb as quickly 
away, leaving her pale and trembling. She tried to answer, 
but for the moment speech refused to come. - 


PARTED. 


299 


‘‘You have forgotten,” he said a little unsteadily; “and 
I rejoice that it is so. But I — I have something to tell 
you.” 

The rapid change from his ordinary reserve to a tone 
of almost impassioned entreaty caused her to lose, for a 
moment, her self-control. 

“ It is not as you think,” she said hastily, and with 
averted face. “ I wish I could forget : I have long wished 
it.” 

“Surely you do not reproach yourself still,” he said, 
mistaking her meaning. “ What can I do to make you 
believe you acted as you should have done? You have 
nothing with which to upbraid yourself.” He spoke a 
little bitterly. 

Cordelia was silent, avoiding his glance, that he might 
not see what was written on her face. 

“I have something to tell you,” he repeated, — “some- 
thing which can no longer be concealed. It is this, Cor- 
delia. My love for you is as strong now as when I first 
told you. of it. Nay, do not start. You have nothing to 
fear, believe me. I thought I had finally succeeded in 
crushing it out of my life until I met you again, and found 
it still here in my heart, filling it as it had never done 
before. I have seen you almost daily for several months, 
and what has been the result? You can guess it, I am 
sure. And now,” he continued, stretching forth both 
hands with an eloquent gesture, “ there is no alternative 
but to leave you as I left you once before. It is inevita- 
ble, and I have seen it coming ever since we spoke to- 
gether here after our long separation. But, coward-like, I 
tried to avoid the contemplation of my duty, as once before 
I endeavored to escape from it. It will not, however, 
brook eternal concealment. I have tried to fancy my pas- 
sion had resolved itself into warm friendship, and nothing 
more. But I cannot deceive either myself or you. I love 


300 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE, 


you, Cordelia, and I shall go from you. You must learn 
to do without me. It will not cost you much, perhaps ; 
but for me it is hard.” His tone, though resolute, betrayed 
some emotion ; and he let his hands fall, with a movement 
of hopeless resignation. 

“Ah!” she cried, turning her face suddenly toward him, 
“you do not know — you do not understand, if you leave 
me, how hard it will be for me also.” Her cheeks became 
suffused with crimson, and she burst into a fit of convul- 
sive weeping. 

“Cordelia!” he exclaimed in unfeigned wonder, “do I 
comprehend you aright } Is it possible Can it be that 
you love me } ” He asked the question with trembling 
expectation, but no answer was forthcoming. 

“ Look up, Cordelia, and speak to me,” he said pres- 
ently. “ If indeed you love me, I am at once the happiest 
and the most unfortunate of men. Tell me, is it so .^ ” 
His eager voice grew more subdued. 

“Yes,” she answered faintly, not venturing to meet his 
gaze, “ I do love you. But why do you call yourself un- 
fortunate } Must I bring fresh misery to you as well as 
to myself } ” 

There was no reply for a moment. Lament had thrown 
himself into a chair, and sat looking mutely at his clasped 
hands outstretched upon his knee. “ What shall I do ? ” 
he said mechanically. “ What can we do } ” 

“ Do not think of me,” said Cordelia, raising her pale, 
tear-stained face to his. “Think only of yourself, Paul. 
You know what is just and right. Be true to yourself.” 

“ Shall I put my own feelings before yours } ” he cried 
passionately. “ It is a question of duty against duty now, 
Cordelia, and not of duty against inclination. Which 
should come first, — my duty to you, or my duty to my- 
self ” He spoke the last words sadly. 

“Your chief duty is to yourself,” she said bravely. 


PARTED. 


301 


** But oh ! can you not fulfil the other equally well ? 
Think, Paul, before you decide. Remember, the happi- 
ness of us both depends upon your choice.” 

He did not seem to hear her. “ Have I not borne 
enough without this ” he exclaimed vehemently. “ So 
long as I suffered alone, I could endure it passably well. 
But that you should give me your love, — a priceless gift, 
— and that I must fling it away without so much as letting 
it touch my heart for one brief instant, is almost more 
than I can bear. You think me weak, perhaps; but I 
wonder at my strength.” 

“ But why, why must you do this } ” she asked brokenly. 

Once I did not love you, and you were right in leaving 
me ; but to-day I do love you. Why, then, can we not 
take the happiness that is offered to us } ” 

“ Can you know me and ask } ” he cried. My heart 
and my spirit are broken, I think ; but I am still honest. 
My love is not for you, nor can yours be mine. My 
broken vows will ever stand between us, Cordelia; and, 
knowing this, what can we do but part .? ” There was a 
subdued anguish in his tone which displayed the effort 
his words cost him. 

“Then, we are indeed to be pitied,” she said slowly. 
“ To stand thus with our hearts bared to each other, and 
feeling that nothing can ever unite us, is a trial such as 
we have never been called upon to endure. But O Paul ! 
are you sure this is the right course to take Have you 
considered well 1 ” She put the question in scarcely au- 
dible tones. 

“ Ah ! do not tempt me, Cordelia,” he said mournfully. 
“I am weak and irresolute enough as it is. To lose you, 
now that you love me, I think is beyond my strength. 
And yet — and yet, what can I do ” 

“But do you owe nothing to me .^ ” she exclaimed. 
“Think again, I implore you. My love for you makes 


302 


A RIGHTEOUS A EOS TATE. 


me a part of yourself. Can it be your duty to cast me 
from you? You are a man with a career before you. I 
am a woman alone in the world, and I love you. What 
have I but you ? ” 

“Forgive me, Cordelia,” he said hastily, “if I have 
wounded you. But, indeed, I hardly know what I say. I 
have wrecked my own life and yours. I have destroyed 
your youth, and given you in place of it unending pain. 
Yet my own misery will perhaps help to atone for it.” 

“Hush!” she said gently. “You forget yourself in- 
deed. Cannot our holy faith comfort us ? Is it not our 
hope and consolation in misery?” 

Lament had risen suddenly, and thrown himself on his 
knees before her. 

“By and by,” he said in a low tone, “but not now — 
not now. Can you bear to look at me,” he added, “ de- 
graded and unworthy as I am ? ” 

“You are not degraded norunworthy,” she answered, 
extending her hand, and letting it rest on his head. 
“Your soul is the noblest I have ever known; and when 
the first shock of this grief — our grief — has passed, it 
will be yet nobler.” 

There was a momentary pause. The shadows length- 
ened, and the room became gradually enveloped in dark- 
ness. Lament, kneeling before Cordelia, formed a black, 
irregular outline against her pale-gray dress. 

“ I never thought you would know,” she said finally, 
looking at him with tear-dimmed eyes. “ I fancied your 
love was a thing of the past, and that, in time, my own 
would be conquered by sheer force of will. But I was 
mistaken. It is there forever : it can never leave me, and 
I must bear my burden alone.” 

“ Not alone ! ” he exclaimed, looking up to meet her 
glance. “No, not alone, Cordelia. Oh I why is every 
thing denied to us?” he continued passionately. “Are 


PARTED. 


303 


we such unworthy objects that the best part of life must 
be withheld from us ? What sin have I committed, ex- 
cept that of acting and speaking the truth? And you — 
who is purer, better, more entitled to all that can bring 
happiness ? Is there no earthly reward for an endless 
struggle in the right course ? Must we wait for another 
existence to reap the benefit of our toil here ? ” 

“ It is for you to decide, Paul,” she said sadly. “ Per- 
haps, by patient waiting, we may find our reward here. I 
wish it might be so, and I will pray to God to grant us 
this blessing. We are yet young.” 

“Young! I have had no youth,” he cried. “There is 
none in store for me. Where is our youth, Cordelia, — 
mine and yours ? Have we not just buried all that re- 
mained of it ? ” 

“ I think you are right,” she said wearily. “ We have 
buried it, and we shall never see it again.” Her calmness 
suddenly deserted her. “ If you will not accept my love, 
can we not, at least, be friends ? ” she cried, her tears 
breaking forth afresh. “Do not cast me entirely away.” 

He rose to his feet, and looked down upon her sorrow- 
fully. “No, no,” he said, “it cannot be, Cordelia. Do 
not put in my way that which I can never look upon or 
touch. Let me take your hand in mine ; for I am quite 
calm again now, and presently I shall be able to bid you 
good-by.” He was visibly making an effort to command 
his voice. 

“Do you remember the old days in Santa Fe, before 
my trouble and yours came to us ? ” he asked gently. “ Life 
then was full of promise. How different is it now ! Even 
though our youth is gone, we have many years before us ; 
and we must endure to the end. I wonder if you fully un- 
derstand me, — if you can form any idea of the agony I 
suffer while I stand quietly here looking into your eyes.” 

“Ah ! ” interrupted Cordelia, clinging to his hand, which 


304 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


was wet with her tears, “ must it be forever ? Is there no 
alternative, — no way of escape?” 

“None,” said Lament firmly; “but try to be brave, 
Cordelia, lest I lose my self-control. You will never know 
what this parting has cost me.” He drew nearer to her, 
and gazed long and searchingly into her face. Then re- 
leasing his hands from her clasp, he laid them gently upon 
her head. “May God bless you!” he said reverently. 
“ May he guide you always, and enable you to bear your 
trial bravely I He has called me from you, Cordelia, and 
he will give you something in place of me.” 

His voice faltered ; and he made an effort to speak again, 
but no sound was forthcoming. Cordelia raised her arms, 
and for an instant placed them about his neck despairingly. 
He drew her to him with sudden vehemence, and kissed 
her several times : then, disengaging himself from her 
clasp, he looked once more into her pale face, and left the 
room. 

She realized that she had seen him for the last time; but 
she shed no tears now, nor did even a sigh escape her. 
She only sat motionless, with her hands pressed tightly 
against her heart. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A MEANS TO THE END. 

“ Children pick up words as pigeons peas, 

And utter them again as God shall please.” 

Summer was now at its height, and the pavement in 
front of the Professor’s house was covered with the faded 
remains of blossoms which the feet of passers-by and the 
storms of rain and wind had changed from white to dull 
brown. Although the heat was often intense, the family 
rarely left the city for any length of time ; for the Professor 
preferred his own home to every thing, and Mrs. Hoveden 
was unwilling to leave him. Sometimes, however, the two 
women, with little Elfrida, would go to the seashore for a 
day or two, returning to the deserted city refreshed and 
invigorated by the cool, bracing air, and enlivened by 
the glimpses of social life with which they had come in 
contact. 

It made little difference to Cordelia whether she were 
in one place or another. Her duties occupied the greater 
part of her time, and her spare hours were spent with her 
books. She well knew how perfect a companion a book 
can be when the mind is discouraged and the heart op- 
pressed, — a companion who never forcibly intrudes his 
views, but who is always ready at a moment’s notice to 
reveal hidden stores of knowledge, offering strength and 
comfort with silent but expressive sympathy. A good 

305 


3o6 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


book is the open door leading to an ideal world, where we 
may retire and live for a while in perfect enjoyment. Here 
sorrow does not enter, nor is the shadow of a regret per- 
mitted for an instant to mar the surroundings. All is 
peace; and the vulgar cares of life are, in this realm, either 
quickly forgotten, or else deemed as naught. 

The Professor and his wife had naturally been surprised 
at the sudden cessation of Lamont’s visits. But, as Cor- 
delia said nothing upon the subject, they wisely asked no 
questions. This portion of her life was one upon which 
she could not touch to any one. It was reserved for her 
moments of solitude and reflection ; and, although its ex- 
ceeding bitterness often made her long for a friend to 
whom she might fully confide the story, she was always 
glad, in her calmer moments, that she had not yielded to 
the impulse. Doubtless, the Hovedens inferred some of 
the truth, if not the whole; and they were willing to offer 
all the consolation that lay in their power. When Elfrida, 
with childlike curiosity, questioned her governess about 
Lamont, her mother rebuked her; but Cordelia’s indifferent 
answer, imbued nevertheless with marked consciousness, 
had a significance of its own which was not lost upon the 
two older people. 

“ He must love her, and she evidently cares for him,” 
said the Professor one day. “But, if so, where does 
the difficulty lie } What can stand between them } Not 
poverty certainly, for they are both above such a consider- 
ation as that. Do you remember, Maria, how white and 
distressed she looked after his last visit here.?” 

“Yes: it is very mysterious,” answered Mrs. Hoveden. 
“We shall never know exactly what happened, I fean 
Cordelia is extremely reserved, and the subject is one upon 
which I cannot question her. I am more than sorry for 
her. She has suffered greatly.” 

“Some people are born to suffer,” said the Professor 


A MEANS TO THE END. 


307 


emphatically, “just as others, with no brains to speak of, 
live like butterflies, enjoying every thing, sipping a little 
honey here, a little there, — but always honey. I wonder 
which is the preferable state } Is it better to think, and, 
consequently, feel and suffer ; or to flit aimlessly about, 
unconscious that such things as thought and sensibility 
exist } Tell me what you know, and I will tell you what 
you feel. The world is full of butterflies, but they are 
ignorant and senseless animals. For my part, I wpuld en- 
dure sorrow for the sake of brains and heart.” 

“So would I,” said Mrs. Hoveden, smiling; “but, while 
you stand here discoursing so eloquently, the hands of the 
clock are moving steadily onward. It is ten o’clock, and 
you will be late at your laboratory.” 

“ I must speak when inspired, or else not at all,” said the 
Professor, laughing good-humoredly. They had finished 
breakfast some time ago, and Cordelia had gone up stairs 
with her pupil. “ I suppose,” added the Professor, “ that 
I must take your advice, and go.” He rose, and thrust his 
newspaper into the pocket of his linen coat, and, bidding 
his wife farewell, left the house. 

Even at that early hour the air was very sultry ; and 
those who were in the street had umbrellas over their 
heads, to protect them from the sun’s scorching rays. As 
the Professor descended the steps, his attention was 
drawn to the figure of a little boy, who was walking non- 
chantly up and down on the opposite side of the way. 
He stopped short on seeing the Professor, and looked at 
him wistfully. Something in his expression instantly 
awakened the Professor’s curiosity and interest ; so he 
crossed the street, and approached the child. 

“Are you in trouble, my little man.?” he asked in a 
friendly tone. “ Are you in search of anybody or any 
thing in particular .? ” 

“No, thank you,” replied the child, raising his large, 


3o8 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


thoughtful eyes. “I am 'going nowhere. I have just fin- 
ished breakfast at the baker’s on the corner. I have 
money, you see.” He put his hand into the pocket of his 
short trousers, and drew forth a handful of small change. 
“ I don’t know where I shall go now,” he added. “ I have 
only been here since last evening.” 

His calm, confidential manner struck the Professor with 
amazement. “Are you alone ” he inquired blankly. 
“Did you come here by yourself .!* You cannot be speak- 
ing the truth } ” 

“ I do speak the truth,” said the boy, flushing a little. 
“ She said I did not, and locked me up. So I ran away, 
and I am not going back again as long as I live.” 

“ Ran away ! ” exclaimed the Professor, somewhat puz- 
zled. “ Oh, this will never do ! Where do you live 1 and 
who is shef 

“ You would not understand if I told you,” said the boy, 
with an unconscious imitation of Mrs. Fielding. “ I was 
punished for Jelling the truth, and I ran away : that is all” 
He spoke almnst sadly, and his eyes were downcast. 

“ But, my dear child, that was very wrong,” said the Pro- 
fessor doubtfully. “ From what place did you run away ? ” 

“From Silverbridge.” 

“ Silverbridge ! Why, that is a long way off,” said the 
Professor in amazement. “Your poor father and mother 
are doubtless in the greatest distress about you. I must 
see to this at once. Come with me, my boy,” 

“I have no father and no mother,” said the child hastily. 
“I call Mrs. Fielding mother, but she is only my step- 
mother; and my father is dead. You are not going to 
send me back, are you, sir.> Please do not.” There was 
an earnest entreaty in his tone. 

“At all events,” said the Professor evasively, “you can- 
not be left to wander about the streets alone. What is 
your name ? ” 


A MEANS TO THE END. 


309 


Richard Fielding. Is that your house opposite ? ” 

“Yes, and I am going to take you there for the present. 
Come, my little man, do not be afraid.” He took the 
boy’s hand, and led him across the street. Richard looked 
up at him with a sort of helpless inquiry. 

“You will not send me back ? ” he asked again. 

“Why, what will become of you if I do not.?” said the 
Professor kindly. “You cannot roam about the city by 
yourself. Where did you intend to sleep to-night .? ” 

“I do not know — anywhere. I staid in the baker’s 
shop last night. I might go back there, I suppose.” 

The Professor gazed at him in silent wonder. Could 
that confident tone and independent manner belong to a 
child .? How could so slight and youthful a form contain 
so much energy and determination .? He felt scarcely 
equal to the task of talking to this boy who seemed so old. 
He noted, as they went up the steps of the house, that 
Richard’s face became suddenly suffused with crimson, 
while his large blue eyes sparkled with excitement. 

“ I would rather die than go back,” he burst forth vehe- 
mently. “ She has always been unkind to me, and I hate 
her, — yes, I hate her ! ” 

“Poor little fellow!” said the Professor gently. He 
entered his drawing-room as he spoke, and, bidding Rich- 
ard be seated, went up-stairs in search of Mrs. Hoveden. 
He told her hurriedly, how he had found the boy in the 
street ; expressing, at the same time, his intention to take 
him home as soon as possible. 

“Yes, you must certainly do so,” said Mrs. Hoveden. 
“But let me see him and talk with him first.” 

She went quickly down-stairs to the drawing-room, 
where Richard, with a large album on his knee, was look- 
ing at some photographs. 

“My dear child,” she said kindly, “will you tell me 
what has happened, and how you come to be alone in 


310 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


New York? Do not be afraid to speak.” She sat down 
beside him, and placed her arm about his shoulders. He 
looked up in surprise, unaccustomed to such tenderness. 

“I was punished unjustly,” he said in a low tone. “She 
locked me up because she thought I told a lie, but I did 
not lie. I have never spoken any thing but the truth.” 

“ Was it your mother, dear ? ” asked Mrs. Hoveden 
sympathetically. 

“No, — my step-mother, Mrs. Fielding. She does not 
love me. I have no real mother.” His voice became 
unsteady, and the large tears that stood in his eyes rolled 
down his cheeks. 

“ And you ran away for this ? ” 

His firmness appeared to return all at once, as the ques- 
tion was put ; and he raised his head proudly, brushing 
away the tears on his face. “Yes. I jumped from my 
bedroom window, and ran to the station. I had money 
with me, and I bought a ticket for New York. They 
refused to sell it to me at first ; but I begged so hard, that 
finally they consented. The train was crowded, and no 
one noticed me. I did not know where to go when we 
reached the city ; but I saw a baker’s shop near by, and I 
went in to buy something, for I was hungry. I asked the 
woman there if I might stay all night. She said no at first, 
but, when she saw my money, told me I might remain if I 
liked. This morning I started out to walk. I was going 
nowhere — just wandering about, when I met the gentle- 
man who brought me here. Perhaps ” — 

“But,” interrupted Mrs. Hoveden, “this is dreadful. 
Do you know,” she added to her husband, who had just 
entered the room, “this poor child slept in a baker’s shop 
last night, and would have roamed about the streets all 
day, had you not met him ? Tell me,” she said, turning to 
Richard, “ what you would have done when your money 
was spent.” 


A ME A ATS TO THE END. 


3II 

“ I do not know. I had not thought of it,” he replied 
carelessly. 

He says his name is Richard Fielding,” said the Pro- 
fessor. “I wonder if he can be the son of a Mr. F'ield- 
ing who crossed the plains with me on that never-to-be-for- 
gotten journey. Your father is dead, you say, Richard } ” 

“ Yes : he died about two years ago. My sister Castaly 
crossed the plains with him once. She was quite little 
then, and our mother was still alive.” 

“ Why, it must be the same ! ” cried the Professor. 
“ Castaly ! yes, that was the name of the little girl Mr. 
Fielding had with him. I remember her perfectly.” 

“ How odd it is ! ” said Mrs. Hoveden. “ Something 
happens constantly to remind you of that journey. I do 
not think, however, I have heard you mention the Field- 
ings.” 

“ Probably not. You know I rarely speak of that time 
at all,” said the Professor thoughtfully. 

“I have heard Castaly mention having crossed the 
plains with papa,” said Richard. It was long ago, when 
I was a little fellow, only five years of age. Mamma 
and I remained at home. I think she died soon after 
they returned ; and then we went abroad, where papa 
married again.” He spoke with animation, having gained 
much confidence in the presence of the Professor and his 
wife. 

‘‘And the present Mrs. Fielding is unkind to you, is 
she } ” inquired the Professor presently. “ What does she 
do ? ” 

“ She locked me up for speaking the truth, and she ap- 
pears to take pleasure in making me miserable,” answered 
Richard, his despondency returning all at once at the 
recollection of his wrongs. “ O sir ! are you going to 
take me back } ” 

“ I fear I must, my dear boy. I do not doubt that what 


312 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


you say is quite true, and that you are unhappy with Mrs. 
Fielding ; but it is, nevertheless, my duty to take you back 
again.” 

“ It will be worse than ever,” said Richard tremulously. 
‘‘ She will punish me again, and more severely.” 

“ No, no : I will speak for you,” said the Professor en- 
couragingly. “You shall not be punished if I can help 
it. I will see Mrs. Fielding myself.” 

“Can you describe your home to me, Richard.^” asked 
Mrs. Hoveden, hoping to divert the child’s mind. “What 
is the name of the place ? ” 

“The village is called Silverbridge, and it is near the 
Hudson River. It is not very far from here. Our home 
is called ‘The Cedars.’ ” 

“ What a pretty name ! Do you go to school there ? ” 

“ Not in summer, but I have a tutor during the winter. 
He is quite young, and knows a great deal.” 

At this moment the door opened gently, and Elfrida’s 
blond head appeared in the opening. The smile which 
a moment before had crossed Richard’s face at the men- 
tion of his tutor grew still brighter as he caught sight of 
the little girl, who, entering noiselessly, stood regarding 
him in mute wonder. Involuntarily he rose from his seat, 
and ran toward her with extended hand, his trouble appar- 
ently fading completely away. 

“ Come and speak to this little boy, Elfrida,” said Mrs. 
Hoveden. “ Would you not like to have him for a play- 
mate ? ” 

Elfrida broke forth into sudden laughter, and clapped 
her hands. “A playmate ! ” she cried. “ Have you come 
to play with me ? What is your name } ” 

“ I cannot stay to play with you. I am to go back home 
with this gentleman,” said Richard. “ I am very sorry.” 
He sighed, and cast an appealing glance at the Professor. 

“ Cheer up, my little man. It is not so bad, surely, as 


A MEANS TO THE END, 


313 


to make you downcast. Some other time you shall come 
to play with my little Elfrida, who has no companion 
except her doll. Should you like that.?” 

“Yes,” said Richard gravely; “that is, if she care to 
have me.” 

“ Stay now : I want you to stay now ! ” exclaimed Elfrida. 
“ No one ever plays with me, and I am tired of being alone. 
I like you,” she added gently ; “and, if you will stay, I will 
show you all my pretty toys. Come with me, come.” She 
seized his hand, and was about to draw him from the 
room. 

“ No, Elfrida : he has already told you he cannot stay,” 
said the Professor, with decision. “He must go home 
with me.” He glanced, as he spoke, at his watch, “ It 
is eleven o’clock,” he said ; “and I think we had better go 
at once. Are you ready to come with me, Richard, my 
boy .? ” 

“ If I must,” said Richard, with hesitation. He held 
Elfrida’s hand tightly clasped within his own, and his 
expressive eyes looked longingly into hers. 

“ Why did he conie if he cannot stay .? ” she cried, 
bursting all at once into passionate sobs. “I want him 
to stay. He shall stay ! ” She ran to her mother, and, 
throwing both arms about her neck, wept bitterly. 

“ For shame, Elfrida ! how can you be so foolish .? ” said 
Mrs. Hoveden reproachfully. “ Richard cannot stay now. 
See, you grieve both him and me by behaving in so childish 
a manner.” 

Elfrida raised her head, and looked at the Professor 
and Richard, who had risen. “ Go, go ! ” she cried, with 
flashing eyes. “I do not care.” She turned away, burst- 
ing afresh into tears and sobs, and hiding her face on her 
mother’s breast. 

“You are an unreasonable child,” said the Professor, 
half smiling, “and you are a true woman. Come,” he 


314 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


added, approaching her, and placing one hand upon her 
head, “ will you not bid us good-by ? ” 

She hesitated for a moment, but finally held out her 
small, delicate hand to Richard. “You will come again ? 
Will you promise } ” she asked. The anger had gone 
completely from her voice, but there were still tears in 
her eyes. 

Richard, also greatly disappointed, could hardly repress 
his own. How different was this home from the one he 
had just left ! What perfect happiness it would be to 
remain here, even for a short time, and enjoy the society 
of Elfrida, whose fantastic humor suggested to him the 
heroine of a fairy-tale, so quaint, so capricious, so ethereal 
was she, seemingly scarcely human ! He bade her fare- 
well in trembling tones, and followed the Professor to the 
door with a sigh of regret. 

Elfrida, standing by her mother’s side behind the open 
window, her blue eyes suffused with tears, appeared to 
him like a beautiful vision slowly fading from sight. He 
looked up at the Professor, who was plunged in reflections 
of a very different kind ; and then he thought of Mrs. 
Fielding, wondering what her reception of them both 
would be. 


XXXIV. 


AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER. 

“ ‘ II y a partout du bon,’ repliquait Candida. ‘ Cela se pent,’ disait Martin, ‘ mais 
je ne le connais pas.’ ” 

Very little conversation took place between the Professor 
and Richard during the ride to Silverbridge. The boy was 
naturally depressed at the idea of facing his step-mother 
after his recent escapade, for he knew the effect of his 
conduct upon her would not be an agreeable one. The 
Professor, on his part, was thinking of the peculiarity of 
his meeting with Mr. Fielding’s son. The recollections 
associated with this gentleman were of a sombre charac- 
ter ; and as he recalled the details of the journey across 
the plains, and the incidents which had since occurred, he 
became more and more pre-occupied. He had purposely 
avoided speaking to Cordelia of Richard before leaving 
the house, and had laid strict injunctions upon his wife 
to be silent on the subject. For of what avail would it be 
to bring up before the girl painful reminiscences which 
could lead to nothing ? 

By and by, hoping to divert his mind somewhat, he drew 
a book from his pocket, and handed, at the same time, an 
illustrated paper to Richard. Both prepared themselves 
to read ; but neither was able, apparently, to fix his thoughts 
upon the literary matter before him. Try as he would, 

315 


3i6 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


Richard could see nothing in the pictures except distorted 
images of Mrs. Fielding, whose Medusa-like head seemed 
to shake ominously. Unconsciously the Professor fol- 
lowed the same train of thought. His book lay unopened 
on his lap ; and, with eyes fixed dreamily upon the green 
meadows past which the cars were rapidly moving, he 
gave himself up to the contemplation of Mrs. Fielding’s 
probable appearance. Was she really a hard-featured, 
harsh-voiced creature, such as Richard had described ? or 
was she merely one whose uprightness and integrity caused 
her to maintain, at all costs, a proper amount of discipline 
in her family ? And Castaly, the little girl who had formed 
one of that memorable party ! Had she any distinct rec- 
ollection of it, he asked himself ? or was the impression 
then made too slight to be retained ? He forbore to ques- 
tion Richard about his sister, preferring to see and judge 
for himself ; and, as the train sped onward, he longed im- 
patiently for his destined stopping-place, notwithstanding 
his companion’s evident uneasiness. 

“ Here we are at last,” he said, with an effort to be 
cheerful, as a little later the station of Silverbridge came 
in sight. ‘‘Now be brave, my boy, and all will go well.” 

Richard did not seem impressed by this encouragement. 

Indeed, I am not frightened, sir,” he said, trying to shake 
off his despondency. “ I am quite ready to go home.” 

“ You are a fine little fellow,” said the Professor approv- 
ingly, looking over his spectacles at the child. “ That is 
the right way to speak. Now show me the way to your 
place. Shall we take a cab, or walk ? ” 

cab, I think,” said Richard, to whom, in his present 
state of mind, every moment of delay was torture. I 
know where to get one that will take us up in ten minutes.” 

'' Lead the way, and I will follow,” said the Professor. 
“ I suppose any of these will do,” he added, pointing to a 
row of carriages that stood in waiting by the station. 


AJV UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER. 


317 


*‘Yes,” said Richard. “Get into this one, if you please, 
sir.” He opened the door of the carriage with an air of 
authority, which, had the circumstances been different, 
would have brought a smile to the other’s lips. “ Go to 
‘The Cedars,’ ” he continued to the driver. 

They entered the rather dilapidated vehicle, and were 
soon rolling over the uneven road that formed the principal 
village street. 

“It will soon be over now,” said Richard calmly, and 
half to himself. 

“You take it too much to heart,” said the Professor 
pleasantly. “ No harm shall come to you while I am here.” 

“Yes; but you will not always be here,” said the boy: 
“and — and you do not know Mrs. Fielding.” He uttered 
the last words mournfully. “There is the house,” he 
added, pointing through the window to a large building 
embedded in trees. “ You see, we have but a little way 
to go.” 

“A fine place, indeed,” said the Professor, following 
with his eye the direction indicated. “You ought to be 
happy in such a home.” 

The boy made no reply. They had entered the grounds 
through the heavy iron gates now, and he was nerving 
himself to meet his step-mother. When the carriage drew 
up before the door, he let the Professor get out first, and 
ring the bell. 

It was just one o’clock ; but, in comparison with the hot 
air of the city they had just left, the atmosphere here 
seemed fresh and cool. The perfectly kept lawns about 
the house were of a brilliant emerald hue, upon which 
innumerable flower-beds formed masses of gorgeous color. 
Far away, beyond an angle of the building, stretched long 
greenhouses, filled, doubtless, with other rare and beautiful 
plants. As the Professor turned from the contemplation 
of these surroundings to enter with Richard the dim, cool 


3i8 a righteous apostate. 

hall, with its stained-glass windows, its floor of Venetian 
tiles, and its staircase of carved stone, he felt instinctively 
that unbounded wealth reigned here. The old butler, who 
admitted them, started a little, and was unable to suppress 
the exclamation that rose to his lips. 

“And is it, indeed, yourself. Master Richard "i ” he said, 
in a tone of delight. “ Why, Mrs. Fielding has been 
hunting the place over for ye ; and, as for Miss Castaly, 
her heart is just broken.” 

“ But Tm here, James, safe and sound, you see,” replied 
Richard earnestly, as the old servant, with a curious glance 
at the Professor, threw open the massive oaken doors of 
the drawing-room. “ Go tell Mrs. Fielding to come down. 
You need not say who is here, but let her know a gentle- 
man wishes to speak with her.” 

James nodded, and silently left the room to summon 
his mistress. Richard went to one of the windows, and 
began to drum nervously on the pane. “ Don’t forget 
your promise, sir,” he said presently. 

“ Eh ! what } ” exclaimed the Professor absently. He 
was sitting in an antique chair of carved ebony, and, lost 
in revery, had almost forgotten the boy’s presence. “ No, 
of course I shall not forget,” he added. “You may rely 
on me to do all in my power for you.” 

He sank back again in his chair, and let his eyes wander 
from one beautiful object to another. Now they rested 
in admiration upon a marble statue, standing in dazzling 
naked loveliness in the full morning light, against the 
sombre hangings of the walls : then they fell restfully 
upon a piece of wonderful wood-carving, or a Chinese 
porcelain, many tinted, and graceful in outline. The 
room was furnished with an elegant simplicity, every 
beautiful object helping to form a harmonious whole. He 
wondered whose taste had superintended the arrangement 
of these admirable surroundings. Not Mrs. Fielding’s, 


AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER. 


319 


certainly ; for how could so morose and severe a nature 
as hers comprehend the force of artistic beauty, or feel 
the influence produced by softly blended colors ? 

She is coming!” exclaimed Richard, suddenly inter- 
rupting the Professor’s meditation. “ I hear her dress 
trailing on the stairs.” He ran forward, as the Professor 
rose from his chair in anticipation of the lady’s entrance. 
The bright sunlight streaming in through the window fell 
full upon her face, as she came into the room with her stiff, 
dignified bearing, her hands folded, and her lips compressed 
into an expectant smile. The Professor advanced a step, 
and then stopped short with an exclamation and a gesture 
of horror ; while Mrs. Fielding, observing his manner, drew 
back a little, and regarded him curiously. His back was 
to the light, and his features consequently somewhat 
obscure to her near-sighted eyes. 

His face was blanched to a deadly pallor ; and he opened 
his mouth to address her, but no sound was forthcoming. 
Poor Richard, his eyes filled with tears, clung to his arm 
as if imploring him to say something before that other 
voice, cold and severe, should strike his ear. But the 
Professor, gazing at Mrs. Fielding with an expression pf 
alarmed incredulity, was silent. 

“ Ah, Richard I it is you, I see,” she said, coming forward 
to where they both stood, not a muscle of her face chan- 
ging. “I suppose I am indebted to this gentleman for 
bringing you back. May I ask where you have been since 
yesterday } ” She appeared to take no notice of the Pro- 
fessor’s look, which, as her hard, monotonous tone made 
itself heard, changed suddenly into one of quick, indefin- 
able relief. He shook off Richard’s clinging grasp, for- 
getting completely the errand that had brought him there, 
and, advancing a step, stood face to face with Mrs. Field- 
ing. 

‘‘At last ! ” he said under his breath. “At last ! He 


320 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


measured her from head to foot with keen scrutiny. So,’* 
he added calmly, “you have been here all the while, 
within a stone’s-throw, while we have been searching 
the world over for you. It is ludicrous.” 

Mrs. Fielding opened her eyes a trifle wider, and changed 
color as she encountered the Professor’s gaze ; but she held 
her ground admirably. 

“Really,” she said, turning to her step-son, “this is a 
very extraordinary person who has brought you home, 
Richard. Where did he find you ? or, rather, where did 
you find him.^” Her lips were pale, and her voice a little 
unsteady ; but no other sign gave evidence of her agitation. 

“You know me well enough,” exclaimed the Professor 
with scorn. “You may pretend to forget me; but at all 
events I remember you, Mrs. Aldergrove. Do you know 
that I have sought you for years ? Now, having found 
you, you shall hear me.” 

“ Mrs. Aldergrove ! ” she exclaimed with well-feigned 
amazement. “ Oh, I see ! you mistake me for that lady. 
Such errors are common. If, however, you seek Mrs. 
Aldergrove, I can give you no information ; \as she has 
been dead for some time.” 

“Ay, so you said, — you and your daughter Margaret,” 
said the Professor bitterly. “ But we have not been idle 
since that accident happened in the stage-coach. Good 
God, woman ! ” he exclaimed vehemently, “ did you think 
to carry out your fiendish plans with no fear of detection ? 
What did you do to Miss Hericourt ? Where is the money 
that belongs to Cordelia } Answer me.” 

Mrs. Fielding shrugged her shoulders a little, “ I think 
I recall your face now,” she said quietly. “ You are Pro- 
fessor Hoveden, are you not } ” 

He did not reply, but began to pace the floor with hasty 
strides, his hands clasped behind his back ; while Richard, 
pale and terrified at the peculiar turn of affairs, shrank 


AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER. 


321 


into a corner, whence he regarded his step-mother and her 
accuser with mute dismay. 

“ Having taken that sad and memorable journey in our 
company,” continued Mrs. 'Fielding, “I am amazed to 
find that you do not recall the circumstances pertaining 
to it as they really occurred. Your language is hardly 
becoming to one who considers himself a gentleman, and 
I must beg to inform you that I am unaccustomed to being 
insulted under my own roof. What you mean, I am at a 
loss to imagine ; and I will not lower myself by asking you 
for an explanation. But if, in the midst of your present 
excitement, you are able to reflect seriously for a moment, 
you will recollect the fact that Mrs. Aldergrove was unfor- 
tunately lost on the plains, and that I, then Miss Anastasia 
Hericourt, with my niece Cordelia, travelled alone subse- 
quently. It is not necessary for me, however, to mention 
these details,” she added stiffly. “Your behavior, which 
is as enigmatical as it is disagreeable, does not entitle you 
to remain an instant longer in this house. But I am above 
resenting your words as I might do. Come with me, 
Richard. I shall not remain here to discover how you fell 
into the hands of this person. You shall tell me the story 
yourself. Sir, I bid you good-morning.” 

She held out her hand to Richard, who approached her 
hesitatingly, casting, at the same time, a look of surprise 
and mortification at the Professor. 

“No!” cried the latter, springing forward, “you shall not 
go until you have heard me. Do you think I am deceived 
by your words "i Have I no comprehension — no eyes } 
Call yourself Miss Hericourt to the world if you will, but 
not to me — not to me.” 

“ I fail to see wherein the matter interests you,” she 
said, moving toward the door with Richard’s hand clasped 
in hers. Her manner betrayed indifference, but a sudden 
change overcame her when the Professor spoke again. 


322 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


“ I will tell you wherein it interests me,” he said with 
emphasis. “Do not fear that aught will remain unsaid 
which for so many long years I have been preparing my 
lips to utter, that your ears might hear, and your mind 
comprehend. Do you know where Cordelia Hericourt 
is ? ” he added, coming close behind her, and speaking in 
a lowered tone. “Has it never struck you she might 
make some effort to find you out ? It is true that she is 
poor, but she is not friendless. Ah ! you start now, Mrs. 
Fielding, and you do well to show at last some trace of 
sensibility. Listen to the rest. Cordelia Hericourt lives 
with me, — she whom your daughter Margaret has person- 
ated for so long, — whom you have both so unmercifully 
robbed, leaving her an outcast upon the world, that you 
might enjoy this luxury. But I have sworn that justice 
shall be done her, and I will keep my word.” 

“ Oh ! this is too absurd : you are a madman,” said Mrs. 
Fielding, with a harsh laugh. She turned, and faced the 
Professor, her pale lips tightly compressed again. “ Cor- 
delia Hericourt in your house ! ” she continued finally. 
“Why, there is only one Cordelia Hericourt. Look, there 
she comes now.” She pointed with one finger through 
the open window. Margaret, utterly unconscious of the 
strange scene enacting in the drawing-room, was walking 
slowly along the gravel-path that led to the house. The 
Professor, breathless with excitement, watched her ap- 
proach. 

“ I do not care what you say. What are your words in 
comparison with the facts I know to be true ? ” he said. 
“ Call your daughter here. I remember her as well as I 
do you. No,” he added, “do not trouble yourself. She 
is coming in, I see, of her own accord.” 

Margaret ascended the vine-covered steps of the ve- 
randa, and, a moment later, stood beside the window, from 
which the Professor had stepped aside to let her pass. As 


AJV UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER. 323 

she caught sight of her mother, standing upright, with a 
fixed and pallid countenance, a look of alarm swept over 
her placid features. She entered the room quickly, where 
the Professor, with folded arms, gazed at her with deter- 
mined scrutiny. Then she cast a hasty glance beyond 
both these stern, silent figures, and beheld Richard, who 
had escaped from his step-mother’s side, and now stood 
looking from one to the other in childish terror, Marga- 
ret’s quick perception instantly told her that something 
was amiss, but her self-possession did not fail her in this 
trying moment. 

Is that you, Richard } ” she asked in surprise, taking 
no notice of the Professor’s presence, or Mrs. Fielding’s 
white, agitated face. “ Why, where have you been and 
how did you get home } Do you know what trouble you 
have caused, disobedient boy } ” 

We are indebted to this gentleman for his return,” 
said Mrs. Fielding with icy composure. “ It is not the 
first time we have seen him, unfortunately. Do you recall 
him, Cordelia } ” 

‘‘ Her memory is, perhaps, even better than yours, 
broke in the Professor ironically. *'Do you remember me, 
Miss Aldergrove 1 ” 

Margaret started, but recovered herself instantly. 

“That is not my name,” she said coldly. “But it does 
not matter. I recollect you perfectly. You were in the 
stage-coach with us when we travelled from Santa Fe some 
years ago. Have you and Mrs. Fielding been renewing 
the pleasant associations of the journey.^” Her tone was 
a mixture of indifference and rudeness. The Professor’s 
face flushed scarlet. 

“ I called you Miss Aldergrove, because it is your name,” 
he said sternly. . “And this lady, formerly Mrs. Alder- 
grove, is your mother. Let me congratulate you both 
upon the manner in which you have, for so long, imposed 


324 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


upon the public. This house is indeed beautiful. You 
are surrounded by every luxury the heart can desire. Per- 
haps, too, your consciences are at rest ; for people such 
as you are not often troubled by any thing so vulgar as 
remorse. I doubt even if your minds ever dwell an instant 
upon the poor girl whom you have so vilely cheated, and 
who for years has been forced to earn her bread. You 
smile, Miss Aldergrove, but soon it will be otherwise. 
This fortune, which you and your mother enjoy, belongs, 
not to you, but to Cordelia Hericourt ; and, in order to 
obtain it, you committed a crime. Tell me,” he cried ex- 
citedly, “ what did you do to old Miss Hericourt ? Ah ! 
now I see the same look on your face which it bore when 
it was discovered that a lady of our party had been lost 
on the plain. And you, too, Mrs. Fielding, why do you 
grow still paler } It is useless to cling so to your daugh- 
ter, for she cannot help you. Do you not see she is more 
frightened even than you are } ” He spoke contemptu- 
ously. The two women looked at each other, white and 
terrified. Margaret was the first to regain her composure. 

“What do you mean ? ” she cried hoarsely. “ How dare 
you come into our house to insult us Leave it, — leave 
it at once.” Her voice trembled with passion or weakness, 
it was difficult to determine which. 

“ He must be mad,” said Mrs. Fielding, in a dry, choked 
voice. “ He does not know what he says.” Her glance 
wandered to Richard, who, filled with awe and dismay, was 
crouching in a large arm-chair, looking with startled eyes 
upon each one of the trio in turn. “ Go away ! ” she 
exclaimed, addressing him angrily. “This is no place for 
you. Do you not hear me } ” she added, as the child did 
not move. 

“Stop!” cried the Professor, with a quick gesture. 
“ Go, Richard, if your step-mother wishes it. Your pres- 
ence here is certainly not desirable. But if your sister, 


AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER. 


325 


Castaly, is at home, bid her come here at once. I wish to 
ask her some questions.” 

“ Castaly ! ” exclaimed Margaret, darting forward to the 
boy’s side. “No, no! not Castaly!” She lost all control 
of herself for a moment, and appeared about to faint. “It 
is not fit that she should be here,” she added presently, 
speaking more calmly. “ You shall not see her. Professor 
Hoveden.” 

“ I understand,” he said, with quiet disdain. “ Miss 
Castaly, perhaps, knows something which you do not wish 
repeated in my presence. Well, have it so if you like. 
She will be forced to appear, however, when the affair is 
taken into court. A delay of a few days will not matter 
much.” 

“ Into court ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Fielding. “ Indeed ! ” 
She spoke sarcastically, but her face was still pale and 
immovable. 

“ Pray, who will accuse us and of what can we be ac- 
cused ? ” asked Margaret, throwing back her head with 
proud scorn. “ What have we to fear in any case } From 
your language I infer that you think we are not the Heri- 
courts. Well, think so if you will.” She left Richard’s 
side, and, approaching Mrs. Fielding, placed one arm about 
her. “The terrible words of this man have upset you, and 
you are agitated, dear aunt,” she said. “But he cannot 
harm us, nor can any one.” 

“So you suppose now, perhaps,” said the Professor. 
“But Cordelia Hericourt and I will not be silent concern- 
ing what we know. How long we have waited for this, — 
how long ! ” he added in a low tone. 

“There is but one Cordelia Hericourt,” said Margaret 
haughtily. “ She stands before you.” 

“Then, you would like me to believe that the young lady 
who for years has lived in my house is Miss Aldergrove!” 
said the Professor impatiently. “Fortunately, we know 


326 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


better. Why, what is the matter ? ” he asked, noting a 
sudden look of alarm cross her face. “Did you imagine 
Cordelia Hericourt would bury herself, and remain silent 
in regard to the robbery perpetrated upon her ? No, Miss 
Aldergrove, it is not so. For years I have sought you 
and your mother for that girl’s sake, knowing well the 
whole terrible story. Who would have thought that child 
yonder could unwittingly have led me to the desired end ? ” 

“ We have borne this too long,” said Margaret faintly. 
“We should not have permitted this man to stay for a 
moment beneath our roof. I shall ring the bell, sir, that 
you may be shown out without delay. How manly and 
admirable it is to come here to insult helpless women ! 
But,” she added, “ I doubt not that the girl you call Cor- 
delia Hericourt is more to blame than you. She always 
envied our good fortune, and her character is such that 
she would not hesitate to be dishonorable in order to serve 
her own ends.” She pulled the bell violently. “Now, 
sir, you may go,” she said. 

“ I am ready to go,” replied the Professor calmly. “ Your 
effrontery does not surprise me in the least. But we shall 
see later which of us wins. I have the honor, ladies, to 
bid you good-morning.” He bowed with sarcastic defer- 
ence, and left the room, followed by little Richard, who 
clung to his hand. 

“ O sir ! ” he exclaimed, “ what has happened } and why 
did you speak so to Mrs. Fielding and Cordelia.? You 
forgot your promise too, but perhaps it does not matter 
now.” 

“ I am afraid I did, my poor little fellow,” said the Pro- 
fessor, laying his hand on the child’s head. “But, as you 
say, it does not matter, perhaps. Mrs. Fielding has some- 
thing else to occupy her at present.” 

“ You did not say that you knew her. Why did you not 
tell me .? ” asked Richard. 


AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER. 327 

I knew her long ago, but she was not Mrs. Fielding 
then,” said the Professor. “ Poor little fellow ! ” he said 
again, after a pause, looking down at the boy’s questioning 
face. “ I must go away now, Richard ; but I shall see you 
again before long. Run into the garden and play, until 
you forget what has just passed.” 

“ I will find Castaly. She is writing by the lake, very 
likely. How glad she will be that I have come back ! ” 
The Professor nodded, and stepped into the carriage, 
that was still waiting before the door; while Richard, after 
one wistful glance at his countenance, turned away, and 
ran across the lawn in the direction of the pavilion. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


A PIECE OF STARTLING INTELLIGENCE. 

“ Let a man contend to the uttermost 
For his life’s set prize, be it what it will.” 

When the Professor returned to the city that afternoon, 
he was very much perplexed. Apart from the unlooked- 
for meeting with Margaret and her mother, which truly 
was enough to fill his mind with reflections of an unusual 
kind, there was something else to occupy him. Cor- 
delia must be told of what had happened ; and it would be 
no agreeable nor easy task to shatter at once h^r firm 
belief in her aunt’s existence, and impart the knowledge 
of her cousin’s treachery, and his own rather deceitful 
behavior. To acquit himself properly of this delicate 
undertaking was something that required much consid- 
eration. 

As he walked along the street toward home in the 
waning afternoon light, that began to cast broad shadows 
here and there, he wondered in what way he should set 
about the duty he was to perform. He began with some 
nervousness to search his mind for expressions suitable 
to the subject, and in so doing he became hopelessly be- 
wildered. The heat of the day, and his recent exciting 
interview, did not serve to help him much. He had no 
intention of shocking Cordelia by any sudden outburst, 
for he recognized the propriety of a careful and skilfully 
328 


A PIECE OF STARTLING INTELLIGENCE. 329 

managed discourse which would cause light to dawn upon 
the matter in a way that could be defined as eminently 
agreeable. His delight at having found the Aldergroves 
so unexpectedly, threw, for a time, his indignation into 
the background. His surprise, his horror, and part of his 
triumph, had spent themselves in the outburst of feeling 
lavished upon the two women, and had now given way to 
a calm, self-satisfied mood. This was surely pardonable, 
even in a man of the Professor’s dignified character ; and 
the pleasure he experienced, and which it is said all those 
feel who, after a long season of waiting, find their hopes 
suddenly realized, was but natural. Since he had known 
Cordelia, it had been the dream of his life to discover 
the hiding-place of her cousins. In his heated fancy, he 
had imagined it to be now here, now there, — everywhere, 
in fact, except in the place which accident had revealed 
to him. His usual close observation had caused him to 
note, not only the looks of Mrs, Fielding and Margaret, 
but their voices and their manner, changing from terror 
to defiance. Defiance ! What was it to him } Had he 
not Miss Hericourt’s handkerchief stowed carefully away 
in the old cabinet in his drawing-room } And then, there 
was Lament, who had known the family so well, that he 
could not fail to identify them. What a victory it would 
be ! What a relief to Cordelia, whose unfortunate posi- 
tion had lain so heavily upon his heart ! 

When he reached his house, a cool breeze was coming 
up from the river; and the street was gilded with the sun’s 
rays, which had lost their heat, and had a reddish tinge. 
Beside the open window, which was shaded by the wide- 
spreading branches of the chestnut-tree on the pavement, 
Cordelia sat reading. She saw the Professor approach, 
and looked up to greet him with a smile, going herself to 
draw the bolt of the street-door, that he might enter 
without delay. 


330 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


‘‘Back so soon! ” she said. “And our little runaway ? 
Did you deliver him safely, poor child, into his step-moth- 
er’s hands } I heard all about it from Elfrida, whose 
heart was almost broken at thus losing a possible com- 
panion and playmate. But what is the matter, Professor.^ 
You look pale and worried, although you smile. Has any 
thing happened ? ” 

“Yes, Miss Hericourt,” he replied. “But do not be 
alarmed. I will tell you about it presently. Are you 
prepared to hear a story which in some respects resembles 
those you read aloud to Elfrida from her book of fairy- 
tales, and in which the good genius presiding over virtue 
makes every thing occur just as it should } ” 

“ Is it — can it be possible that you have news of my 
aunt ” she asked quickly, her color coming, and then 
fading away again, leaving her very pale. “ Is that it, 
Professor.^ ” 

“You shall hear presently,” he replied. “Where is 
Mrs. Hoveden } ” 

“In the drawing-room. Shall we go to her.^” 

“By all means. She must hear what I have to say as 
well as you. Be patient for a moment, dear Miss Cor- 
delia.” He smiled encouragingly ; and they entered the 
drawing-room, where Mrs. Hoveden was engaged with 
some intricate fancy-work. 

“Well, Maria, I have some startling news for you both,” 
said the Professor, throwing himself into a chair, and 
wiping the moisture from his face. “That is,” he added 
hastily, recognizing the fact that this was not the way he 
had intended to begin, — “ that is, something very ex- 
traordinary happened to me to-day.” 

“No accident, I hope,” said Mrs. Hoveden, letting her 
work fall into her lap. “You took the child safely home, 
did you not ? Poor little fellow ! My heart ached for 
him. But let us hear your story, whatever it may be.” 


A PIECE OF STARTLING INTELLIGENCE. 33 1 

is a long one,” said the Professor ; “and I suppose 
I must begin at the beginning. It concerns you, Miss 
Hericourt. No, no, there is nothing to turn pale about. 
The news I bring you is, on the whole, good news.” 

“You have learned something of my aunt, I am sure!” 
exclaimed Cordelia. “Pray, tell me at once what it is.” 
A sudden light came into her eyes, and the slender fingers 
clasping her book trembled a little. 

“ My intelligence is not of the kind you expect,” said 
the Professor. “ But never mind. Did it ever occur to 
you,” he added, going straight to the point, “that your 
cousins, the Aldergroves, might have played you false, and 
so arranged matters that the money belonging to you and 
Miss Hericourt should fall into their own hands } ” He 
looked narrowly at her as he slowly asked the question. 

“Why, no!” answered Cordelia: “how, indeed, could 
such a possibility occur to me, when Mrs. Aldergrove is 
dead, apart from the fact that my aunt may be so like- 
wise } I did think once, long ago, that my cousin Mar- 
garet might have personated me in order to obtain the 
money, and afterwards have so influenced my aunt as to 
induce her to keep the matter secret. But, upon reflec- 
tion, the idea seemed absurd.” 

“ Not so impossible as you think, nor so absurd,” said 
the Professor dryly. “ Suppose I could prove to you that 
the lady lost upon the plains was not Mrs. Aldergrove at 
all, but your aunt. Miss Anastasia Hericourt ! ” He bent 
forward, and regarded her earnestly. 

“ Not Mrs. Aldergrove ! ” cried Cordelia, starting up. 
“Not Mrs. Aldergrove! Oh, you must be mistaken!” 
She ceased speaking abruptly, and the Professor saw her 
breast heave with excitement. Mrs. HoVeden, with ever- 
ready sympathy, made a motion to draw the girl toward 
her ; but, at a sign from her husband, she silently leaned 
back again in her chair. 


332 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


While Cordelia was standing thus, the Professor qui- 
etly rose, and unlocked the drawer of the ebony cabinet. 

“ See,” he said, coming toward her. “ I have some- 
thing here. Do you recognize it ? ” 

Cordelia had recovered by this time from the strange 
effect produced by his words. She sat down again, and 
passed her fingers mechanically over the handkerchief. 

“ It is my aunt’s,” she said presently, speaking in a calm 
tone. “ Have you had it there all the while ? Why did 
you never let me see it } ” 

“ I have a confession to make. Miss Hericourt,” said the 
Professor after a pause, glancing apologetically at his 
wife. “ The facts of this story have been known to me 
for some time, — ever since I became acquainted with you. 
But, as the Aldergroves had apparently disappeared from 
the face of the earth, I saw no reason to divulge either 
my knowledge or my suspicions. That handkerchief was 
picked up by me on the plain when we drove back to the 
place where the lady must have been lost. To me it 
proves conclusively that it was Miss Hericourt who fell 
out, and not Mrs. Aldergrove. Add to this, that the 
other ladies called themselves the Hericourts, and that 
the putting your aunt out of the way would be the only 
means by which they could obtain the fortune. Do you 
remember the letter I sent you } The name upon it was 
owing to no mistake of mine. I was told by the person 
representing herself to be Miss Hericourt to write to Miss 
Aldergrove, and I did as requested ; although at the time 
of the accident, and even before then, I suspected some- 
thing was wrong. When I met you here, and heard your 
story, the whole thing was as clear as possible : but I said 
nothing in regard to my thoughts, for I saw it would be 
of no use to do so ; and I am a man who troubles himself 
little about what is unnecessary. I put the handkerchief 
away in that drawer ; and, while you have supposed me 


A PIECE OF STARTLING IN^TELLIGENCE. 333 

engaged in looking for Miss Hericourt, I have really been 
trying to find the Aldergroves. You know that the 
search has been considered a hopeless one, and the sub- 
ject is rarely mentioned between us any longer. But 
I have never doubted that the day would come when I 
should stand face to face with the women who robbed you, 
and committed a crime that they might do so the more 
easily. Miss Cordelia, the day has come at last. This 
morning I saw Mrs. Aldergrove and her daughter Mar- 
garet.” 

He spoke calmly, exhibiting none of the emotion which 
suddenly overpowered Cordelia. 

“You saw them!” she exclaimed. “Mrs. Aldergrove 
and Margaret ! O Professor ! are you quite sure } ” Her 
breath came and went quickly, and her eyes sparkled with 
animation. 

“ Sure .^ ” said the Professor. “Yes, I am quite sure. 
Mrs. Fielding, the step-mother of little Richard, who ap- 
pealed so strongly to our sympathies this morning, is the 
former Mrs. Aldergrove ; and the young lady, who lives 
with her under the name of Cordelia Hericourt, is your 
cousin Margaret.” 

“Cordelia Hericourt, — Cordelia,” repeated the girl, as 
if she failed to comprehend the full meaning of his words. 
“Ah !” she cried suddenly, her pale face becoming suf- 
fused with color. “Does she dare to call herself that!” 
Her eyes flashed with anger, and her slight form trembled 
violently. “ They always hated me. I see it all now. I 
have been a fool not to suspect them sooner.” She spoke 
brokenly, and the Professor watched her with something 
like admiration. 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Hoveden gently, “ these people 
indeed merit no mercy at your hands. But remember 
that they are defenceless now, while you are strong.” 

“I do not care,” cried Cordelia. “Why should I be 


334 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


merciful to them ? I shall show them no mercy.” Her 
passion vented itself in a burst of tears, and for a few 
moments she wept convulsively. ‘‘The excitement has 
been too much for me,” she said presently, drying her 
eyes, and making an effort to regain her composure. “I do 
not often give way in such a manner, but it seems terrible 
to think such a discovery as this should be made. I suffer 
from the indignity to which I have been subjected, and I 
am overpowered by my cousins’ treachery. What harm 
did I ever do them, I wonder } And my poor aunt too } 
What has become of her } Doubtless she is dead, — mur- 
dered in cold blood by these fiends in human shape.” 

“Oh, no! not that exactly,” said the Professor. “A fall 
from a stage could not kill her. The Indians probably 
captured her.” 

Cordelia had bowed her head upon both hands, and did 
not speak for some time. 

“How did these people receive you ” she asked quietly, 
having completely mastered her emotion. “ Did they rec- 
ognize you, and seem frightened } What did you say to 
them Tell me, too, if they acknowledged their guilt.” 

“ Acknowledge it I ” exclaimed the Professor. “ I fear 
you are not so familiar with the characters of your cousins 
as I am. At first they appeared really terrified, for I lost 
no time in telling them plainly of what I accused them. 
But, gradually gathering the strength and self-reliance 
for which I presume they are both noted, they defied me 
openly, declaring themselves to be the veritable Heri- 
courts, and denouncing you as Miss Aldergrove, the 
wicked cousin who wishes to deprive them of their rights. 
I have only one thing with which to reproach myself,” 
added the Professor; “and that is, my stopping to talk to 
them at all. It was undignified, to say the least : but, 
meeting them unexpectedly in that way, my feelings over- 
came me ; and I made them plainly understand what I 


A PIECE OF STARTLING INTELLIGENCE. 335 

thought of them. It was wrong, though, I acknowledge. 
I should have sent Burton to have it out with them. Yet 
it was an intense satisfaction to me. I feel better now 
than I have done for years. What they said need not 
intimidate us in the least, and I am rather pleased than 
otherwise at the ground they have taken. It will make 
our victory double.” 

“ Is there no limit to their baseness } ” cried Cordelia. 
“ Will they persist even now in their treachery ? Surely, 
they cannot do so ! ” 

“They will make the attempt,” said the Professor, with 
an easy smile. “ But do not fear that any thing will come 
of it. Here is the handkerchief to begin with ; and 
Lamont can identify them as the Aldergroves, apart from 
the story I myself have to tell.” 

Cordelia started at the mention of Lamont’s name, 
which had not been uttered since his last visit to the Pro- 
fessor’s. 

“You told him all, then ” she asked. “If he can 
help us, he will do so gladly,” she added confidently. 

“ To tell the truth,” said the Professor, “ I sent for him 
that evening solely to discover what he knew about the 
Aldergroves, and your relations with them. Forgive me 
for having concealed this from you. Did you not, how- 
ever, guess our business ? ” 

“I thought it might perhaps have something to do with 
my aunt ; and, when he said he knew my story, I was, of 
course, convinced that you had talked of it together. I 
did not suppose your conversation could lead to any thing, 
so I asked no questions. Besides, you know, I am seldom 
curious.” 

“ Less so than any woman I know, except, of course, 
you, Maria,” said the Professor, nodding toward his wife. 

“ Why did you tell me nothing about all this ? ” asked 
Mrs. Hoveden in a slightly hurt tone. “ I can understand 


336 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


why you withheld the truth from Cordelia, but with me 
it is different. Do I not deserve all your confidence ? ” 

The Professor smiled. “There are some things,” he 
said, “ which a man bears better alone. Suspicion is one 
of them. Is not one troubled mind enough for a house- 
hold Why should I burden you with cares you are 
powerless to relieve ? ” 

“Still,” persisted Mrs. Hoveden, “you would have done 
better to tell me.” Her womanly dignity was a little 
wounded. “Do you think,” she added, “that I have not 
noticed your changed manner? It has worried me a great 
deal. I remember particularly the day you first met Cor- 
delia.” 

“ Ay ! ” he interrupted. “ It had never come before me 
as it did on that day. And afterwards, when we heard 
Miss Hericourt’s story, all my vague suspicions were 
turned, as if by magic, into reality. I was as sure then of 
the Aldergroves’ crime as I am now that I have seen 
them.” 

“Mrs. Aldergrove has married again, then, — the Mr. 
Fielding, of whom you spoke, was her second husband,” 
said Mrs. Hoveden reflectively. “He also was with you 
on the plains ? ” 

“Yes: I recollect him. A tall, spare man, grave, and 
little given to speech. He had his daughter with him, — 
a child of about ten years of age.” 

“And where is she?” asked Cordelia quickly, rousing 
herself from the abstraction into which she had fallen. 
“ Is she with them ? Did you see her ? ” 

“ They would not let me see her,” replied the Professor ; 
“ and, for that very reason, I think she must know some- 
thing to their disadvantage. So much the better. They 
can hide her now, and prevent her from speaking. But 
how will it be when the matter is brought into court ? ” 

“It shall be brought into court,” said Cordelia firmly. 


A PIECE OF STARTLING INTELLIGENCE. 337 

“ I will use every means in my power to have justice 
meted to them.” 

“ That is well spoken ! ” cried the Professor. “ I feared 
you would shrink from the publicity involved in such a 
proceeding, but I am glad to see you ready to act other- 
wise. Remember, we are dealing with people who are 
determined to carry their brazen effrontery to its utmost 
limit. They have no pity for you, Miss Cordelia. They 
will even denounce you as an impostor, in addition to their 
other wickednesses. Let the law, therefore, take its 
course.” He spoke sternly, bringing his clinched hand 
forcibly down upon the table as he uttered the last sen- 
tence. 

Cordelia bent her head in assent, but did not reply. 
Her face, which rested on her hands, was very white ; and 
her thoughts seemed far removed all at once from the 
present scene. 

“ I do not think I ever had such a shock in my life,” 
continued the Professor, breaking in upon her revery. 
“ For a long time my indignation got the better of me. I 
even forgot poor Richard and his wistful eyqs. In fact, 
I could do nothing but pour forth the wrath which had 
been in my mind for so long, waiting patiently for an 
opportunity to expend itself. It certainly startled Mrs. 
Fielding into something like fright. Margaret, who is 
indeed your very image. Miss Cordelia, was not in the 
room at the time ; but she came in afterward, and then I 
had it out with them both. Of course, they ordered me 
to leave the house ; but I expected that. I said a great 
deal before I went, however; and our turn will come again.” 

*‘1 could not have conceived such wickedness,” said 
Cordelia. “Their scheme seems a hazardous one also. 
They must have counted upon final discovery.” 

“ I think not,” said the Professor. “ But, at all events, 
their weapons of defence have, doubtless, long been sharp- 


338 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


ened for the struggle, should it come. We shall see when 
they are brought to justice. I shall put the matter in 
Burton’s hands to-night. We must pay these people in 
their own coin. Your fortune shall be recovered, Miss 
Cordelia, and the death of your aunt avenged, if she be 
dead.” 

Cordelia rose, and extended both hands to him. Kind, 
generous friend,” she said, “ how can I repay you for your 
interest, and your goodness to me } ” There were tears 
in her eyes ; and, when the Professor answered, his voice 
trembled a little. 

“ Nonsense, nonsense ! ” he said abruptly. It has been 
my most earnest wish to clear this matter up; because — 
because I like justice, and the thought of a wrong perpe- 
trated upon a friend affects me personally. That is all. 
I would do as much for any one.” 

He left his seat, and approached his wife. ‘‘Am I for- 
given, Maria } ” he asked. 

Cordelia did not hear the reply. She resumed her seat 
by the window, and gazed down the street, which was all 
aglow with the crimson rays of the setting sun. Up in 
the chestnut-tree, a bird, whose plumage of sober gray was 
touched with rosy light, poured forth his heart in song. 
There was an atmosphere of peace and tranquillity every- 
where which heralded a perfect summer evening. Far 
overhead the white moon sailed slowly, waiting for the 
coming twilight to change her pale disk to gold. 

Cordelia was lost in thought. At the bare idea of re- 
covering her fortune, the old resolutions formed in Santa 
Fe rose up with redoubled force. Lament, indeed, was 
lost to her forever ; but he had said that something would 
come to replace him : and his words would be verified by 
deeds of benevolence and charity, which, though they could 
but imperfectly fill her life, would at least give her as much 
peace as she was entitled to enjoy. 


A PIECE OF STARTLING INTELLIGENCE. 339 
✓ 

A series of faces came up before her in imagination, and 
submitted themselves to her contemplation. First those 
of Margaret and her mother, side by side, and filled with 
unalterable hate ; then the stern features of the Superior, 
who claimed her share of the promised wealth that was 
to found a new order for the Church ; and finally, in the 
far, dim distance. Lament’s pale countenance seemed to 
smile a sad encouragement. 

The voices of the Professor and his wife, talking at the 
other end of the room, became gradually indistinct, and at 
last ceased to be heard. Long shadows crept forth from 
the rose-colored light, and spread themselves along the 
street like a gray carpet. The merry bird overhead left 
the swaying boughs of the chestnut-tree, and flew else- 
where. Then presently a bar of silver light fell across 
the window-sill, and touched Cordelia’s sombre dress. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


SUSPENSE. 

“All infractions of love and equity in our social relations are speedily punished. 
They are punished by Fear. Fear is an instructor of great sagacity and the herald of 
all revolutions. He is a carrion-crow ; and, though you see not well what he hovers for, 
there is death somewhere.” — Emerson. 

Left by themselves in the drawing-room, from which 
the Professor had just gone, Mrs. Fielding and Margaret 
looked at each other for a time in speechless terror. Yet, 
although neither spoke, each seemed to divine the other’s 
thoughts. A painful stillness reigned everywhere ; but the 
beams of light, like handfuls of gold cast recklessly down 
by the spendthrift sun, danced merrily over the carpet as 
the breeze stirred the branches of the trees. Without, 
the beauty and harmony of nature had never been more 
apparent. The summer day was a hymn of silent praise 
emanating from every enamelled blossom on Mrs. Field- 
ing’s flower-beds, — from the very atmosphere indeed. 

How strange a contrast were the faces of the two women 
who clung to each other within that rich apartment, among 
the silken cushions, the Chinese porcelains, and the gleam- 
ing marbles ! To them, their surroundings for once meant 
nothing. What mattered it whether they inhabited a pal- 
ace or a hovel while the ring of that accusing voice still 
sounded in their ears } 

Was there silence without.? Was it fancy, or did a 
340 


SUSPENSE. 


341 


hundred voices suddenly shout a name which a faithful 
echo repeated endlessly ? Surely, the air was filled with 
varied tones, which in a rich, rhythmical cadence, uttered 
the same sound continually, but with different degrees of 
force. Now it rose into a faint, silvery chime. Then it 
sank a little, growing more and more distinct, until finally 
it swept down into the very room with a long-drawn, tri- 
umphant cry, vibrating from one end of the apartment to 
the other, but lingering longest where the two women sat 
crouching in the quickly fading light. Still neither spoke. 

After a little while the’ voices died gradually away, 
floating upward with a gentle, sighing resonance, like the 
silvery tone that had marked their descent. Then so 
deathlike a silence reigned, that Margaret could hear her 
mother’s heart beat against the shoulder upon which Mrs. 
Fielding leaned. What a peculiar sound it was ! Seem- 
ingly muffled, as though in fear of being overheard, and 
yet so distinct, that, to any one sitting in the room, it must 
have been apparent. Was hers, too, beating so loudly, 
Margaret wondered. She placed her hand on her breast, 
and closed her eyes. 

When she re-opened them, the drawing-room was much 
darker. Gloom had stolen from the corners, and touched 
every object with a dusky shadow. The sky, bathed in a 
ruddy reflection cast by the declining sun, could be partly 
seen through the open window. A yellow haze lay in the 
warm atmosphere, and the tall trees looked black against 
the masses of pale pink clouds overhead. How long they 
had been sitting there, she and her mother, Margaret 
knew not. She heard a door close up-stairs with a sharp, 
quick sound ; and a light footfall, probably Castaly’s, was 
heard ascending the stairs. And yet Mrs. Fielding, cling- 
ing tightly to her daughter’s arm, never moved. She was 
not asleep, nor did she dream, as she sat with her eyes 
riveted continually upon the marble statues gleaming in 


342 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


the obscurity, as if she expected them to come down from 
their pedestals to confront her. Could they, too, accuse 
her 

Of what, in the mean while, was Margaret thinking? 
Did the final glow of an expiring conscience spring forth 
suddenly into flame, and illumine her mind for an instant ? 
Did regret, with its never-ending bitterness, assail ,her ? 
The gathering darkness hides her face, and perhaps it is 
as well that this is so. If she looked back, what did she 
see ? A life whose maintenance had cost her more than 
she cared to acknowledge. Could she now renounce all 
claim to that which she had won by the work of her own 
hands and brain ? Was it of this she thought ? or did she 
dwell perchance, for one brief instant, upon the girl she 
had so cruelly wronged, — Cordelia, whom she had sup- 
posed dead, and who now stood forth ready to demand 
that which was hers by right ? 

Margaret shuddered a little, and drew nearer to her 
mother’s side. 

“ Margaret,” whispered a voice, Margaret ! ” 

Oh, how pitiful was this sound, like the wail of a little 
child imploring help ! Where were the defiance, the bold- 
ness, the cold contempt, of that tone, which heretofore had 
been so apparent ? Now this whispered name fell upon 
the silence like a voice from without. But the spell which 
had held the two women in its grasp was broken. 

*^It has come at last,” said Margaret, under her breath. 
“It has come at last.” 

“ What have we to fear ? ” asked Mrs. Fielding, trying 
to gather courage. She drew away from her daughter, and 
looked into her face, rendered indistinct by the gathering 
dusk. 

“ I do not know. How, indeed, should I ? ” replied 
Margaret, starting up suddenly. “I cannot tell, either, 
why I sit and brood over it here like this. I can shake 


SUSPENSE. 


343 


off this horrible feeling, and I will. Have you ever known 
me to be disconsolate before, mother "i Do I not always 
accomplish whatever I undertake ? Cordelia is alive, and 
near us, but what of that.? Two are stronger than one. 
The money we have so hardly earned shall not be wrested 
from us now : it shall not.” She spoke in a louder key, 
and then dropped her voice again. “ Who can prove that we 
are not the Hericourts .? ” she asked. “ Who shall declare 
the money to be hers, and not ours .? Who shall decide .? ” 

Her tall figure, with its white drapery, standing before 
Mrs. Fielding, and against the darkening twilight, ap- 
peared to increase in height. In her vehemence she had 
stretched forth both arms, but a moment later she let 
them fall again by her side. 

“You forget Castaly,” said Mrs. Fielding, in scarcely 
audible tones. “You do not remember what she said — 
what she knows.” 

“ I remember well enough,” replied Margaret, with some 
contempt. “ But we need not fear her. She dreams, like 
her brother. Dreams are not evidence.” 

“ Yes, yes, she dreams,” whispered Mrs. Fielding, 
“Sit down again beside me, Margaret. I wish to feel 
you near me.” 

Margaret sank once more upon the cushions, and buried 
her face in both hands. In spite of her bold words, she 
trembled. 

How forcibly does the unexpected affect us in life! 
Give us only a moment in which to prepare ourselves for 
coming events, and we will be ready to meet them half 
way. But, when suddenly assailed by the unlooked for, 
the strongest natures are startled into temporary forget- 
fulness. Why could not Margaret and her mother call up 
now the firmness they had always displayed ? Together 
they had obtained the money, and together could they not 
keep it .? Let Cordelia come forward if she would, — let 


344 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


even old Miss Hericourt return, and face them. Wl?^t 
cared they ? What were Castaly’s fantastic dreams/ or 
the recollections of the Professor, rising like pale spectres 
of the past ? 

Margaret, sitting among the silken cushions in the 
gloom, thought of all this, and tried to force courage into 
her breast. She may have partly succeeded ; for, could 
the Professor have come into her presence at that moment, 
he would have found her very different from the woman 
he had seen that morning. She could have looked into 
his eyes now without shrinking, — without even changing 
color. It was well for her that she thought so, — well for 
her that her terror could spend itself in the darkened room 
unperceived, leaving her white, cold, and trembling, but, 
at the same time, ready to meet whatever might threaten. 

It has been truly said, that, when we commit a crime, 
the world is made of glass. It was thus with the world 
wherein Mrs. Fielding and Margaret lived, and it had been 
made so by themselves. As a result of Richard’s unjust 
punishment, thousands would now hear of that deeper, 
blacker sin which, for so many years, had remained hidden 
within their hearts. It was the justice of Nature, which 
so liberally pays us for every act done by our hands from 
the cradle to the grave. For him who transgresses a law, 
be it what it may, there is retribution in store ; but is 
virtue rewarded in an equal manner ? Where is the mate- 
rial recompense for well-doing to be found ? In regions, 
perhaps, too elevated for man to reach, but not here, surely. 

Margaret raised her head at last, and, putting forth her 
hand, touched her mother’s, which was moist and trembling. 

“ It will soon be time to light the lamps,” she said, in a 
low tone. “ We must not be found sitting here. Let us 
go outside.” 

Mrs. Fielding silently rose, and they passed out of the 
room to the veranda. 


SUSPENSE. 


345 


The sun had gone down, and the air was chilly. Yet the 
two women hardly realized how long they had crouched 
side by side in the drawing-room, from which the strange 
voices and the sunlight had gradually faded. 

“The moon is just rising,” said Margaret, pointing to 
the sky. “ What will have happened before it rises again } 
Shall we be here, do you think } ” She tried to laugh, but 
failed in the attempt. 

“ We shall be in prison,” said Mrs. Fielding. “ If Cor- 
delia and this man Hoveden ” — 

“ I shall never give in, let them do what they like,” 
interrupted Margaret. “ Remember, the game you have 
begun must be carried out to the very end. We have 
played for so long, that we ought to be adepts by this 
time.” 

“ I do not understand how Cordelia can be alive,” said 
Mrs. Fielding miserably. “Why should that man have 
deceived us about her } ” 

“ Do New-Mexicans ever speak the truth 1 ” asked Mar- 
garet. “I, for my part, never believed her dead. I tried 
to, but could not. But she cannot interfere with us now. 
She cannot.” 

She turned aside, and paced the veranda quickly, shiv- 
ering a little in the cool atmosphere. 

“You are a great comfort to me, Margaret,” said Mrs. 
Fielding presently. “In the hour of doubt and trouble, 
you are always here to uphold me with your never-failing 
courage.” 

She spoke in a tone which she employed toward no one 
except her daughter, and even then it was rarely used. 

If Mrs. Fielding had a single redeeming trait in her 
character, it was her affection for Margaret, displayed, it 
is true, only in moments of weakness, but, nevertheless, 
the one feeling akin to tenderness that her hard nature 
ever revealed. They were a peculiar study, these two 


34 ^ 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE, 


people. Apart, as helpless almost as babes ; but, when 
united, what could they not accomplish ? They formed 
together as perfect a unity, in one sense, as ever existed; 
— strong, energetic, inflexible. And their mutual depend- 
enec, when rightly exercised, brought forth glorious results. 

“ Who shall say I am not Cordelia Hericourt ? ” asked 
Margaret, stopping short in her walk, and approaching 
Mrs. Fielding. “ Is there any difference between us ex- 
cept this little brown freckle on my neck.?’’ 

“ I had forgotten that,” said her mother quickly. “What 
if it should lead to ” — 

“No, no,” interposed Margaret. “It shall lead to noth- 
ing.” She smiled, as if a new and agreeable thought had 
just risen to her mind. 

“ What if she should come back .? ” whispered Mrs. 
Fielding, with sudden terror. “She may not be dead, 
after all.” 

“ Never fear that we shall see her again,” replied Mar- 
garet. “ She can do us no harm, however, even if she do 
return.” 

James, the butler, entered the drawing-room, and lighted 
the lamps. A soft radiance streamed across the veranda, 
and touched the dark ground beyond. 

“ Let us go into the house,” said Margaret. “ It is cold 
here, and the light reminds me of that dreadful night. 
Do you remember,” she whispered, drawing closer to her 
mother, “ how the moonlight fell upon the vacant seat in 
the stage.? It was like that.” She pointed to the bar of 
yellow light quivering on the grass. 

“Do not talk so, Margaret, I implore you,” said Mrs. 
Fielding. “You increase my nervousness, and your own 
as well. Come away, and try to forget what has passed ; 
for we have need of all onr energy. We must be prepared 
now for the worst. Do not try your strength.” 

“You are right,” Margaret answered calmly. “I shall 


SUSPENSE. 


347 


speak of it no more. I think dinner must be ready, so let 
us go in.” 

They entered the house again, their faces looking ghastly 
in the lamplight ; biit upon Margaret’s features something 
of the old defiant expression had come back. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


THE TRIAL. 

“ II n’y a que Dieu et quelques genies rares pour qui la carriere s’etende a mesure 
qu’ils y avancent.” — Diderot. 

The trial of the suit brought by Cordelia Hericourt 
for the recovery of her property, some twenty years ago, 
created, more excitement, perhaps, than has done any 
event of recent times. The two Aldergroves, their callous 
natures and ignoble traits artfully hidden by a seeming 
grace, were, of course, the central figures, and formed 
a peculiar contrast to Cordelia, whose maidenly reserve 
had given way somewhat beneath the injustice and treach- 
ery of her cousins. With a gradually increasing sense of 
the outrage to which she had been subjected, she showed 
her eagerness and her embittered feelings to some extent, 
only overcoming them at last by a powerful exertion of 
the will, which nearly always was under her control. 

One could scarcely define the nature of the curiosity 
which drew the crowd of men and women to the court- 
room on the first day of the trial. Autumn was not yet on 
the wane ; and the long, narrow windows of the building 
were still supplied with dark-green shades, which- cast a 
subdued light over the multitude of forms, and made the 
warmth of the day seem less. It was, doubtless, owing to 
this partial obscurity, that Cordelia, on entering with her 
348 


THE TRIAL. 


349 


counsel, Mr. Burton, failed to discover Lament’s expectant 
face among the throng. Yet she was conscious of his 
presence, and felt indirectly the influence of the glance he 
must have cast upon her as she took her seat, and turned 
her eyes toward her cousins, who, sitting with their counsel, 
faced her from a short distance. It was with a sensation 
of nervous dread, quite unknown to her, that she gazed 
for the first time in many years upon the features which 
nothing could ever obliterate from her memory, and which 
had now something horrible in their outlines and stern 
rigidity. As she looked, she knew that her face expressed 
all the sensations that rose within her; and yet her glance 
was received, both by Margaret and Mrs. Fielding, by one 
of entire peacefulness. The fear which a short time before 
had tortured these women must have been thrown forcibly 
aside, for nothing apparently could now ruffle their placid 
countenances. They exchanged no remarks, either be- 
tween themselves or with their counsel, but sat upright 
and motionless, waiting for the plaintiff to open the case, 
and betraying but little interest in the surroundings. 

When Cordelia Hericourt was called to the witness- 
stand, at the beginning of the proceedings, those who had 
been unable to observe her closely since her entrance 
could not avoid slight exclamations of astonishment as she 
stepped forward. Her more than striking resemblance 
to one of the defendants ; the air of proud dignity that 
accompanied her words and actions ; and her slow, earnest 
manner of speaking, — were the subjects of much comment 
from the audience. She began her story in trembling 
tones, which, however, gradually increased in volume, each 
utterance falling upon the ears of the listeners with force 
and distinctness. No detail of importance that had oc- 
curred to her since her father’s death in connection with 
the matter in question was omitted by her, and occa- 
sionally her answers to the interrogations addressed to 


350 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


her called forth a murmur of admiration and applause. 
Not once did her eyes seek Lamont. He was there, she 
knew, watching her attentively ; and every word of her tes- 
timony was filled with significance for him : but still, when 
her gaze wandered at all from her counsel, it was to rest 
upon the faces of her cousins, who, cold and unimpressed, 
returned the look with one in which their consciousness of 
final triumph lingered. To the lookers-on, the scene 
was one of unusual interest. The wonderful likeness 
between the two girls ; Mrs. Fielding’s stolid, unruffled 
demeanor ; and the ever-increasing ardor of Cordelia, as 
she advanced in her story, — were each a special study in 
itself. There was far more pity than anger in her evidence 
toward the last. The first feelings of wrath which had 
burned so intensely within her passed gradually away, 
leaving in their stead a sentiment of combined pity and 
contempt. Which predominated, it would be hard to de- 
cide ; for her emotion, when displayed at all, was shown in 
a very mild form. 

She gave *many details of her early life, related in full 
the story of the money, spoke of her illness, the departure 
of her aunt, her residence in the convent, her subsequent 
arrival in New York, and her position as governess in 
Professor Hoveden’s family. It seemed almost impossible 
for the evidence to be a fabrication. It was given with 
such sincerity and minuteness, her memory for dates was 
so accurate, the description of her father and his life so 
consistent with well-known facts, that scarcely a person 
in the court-room doubted that she spoke the truth in 
declaring herself to be Cordelia Hericourt. When she at 
last left the witness-stand, without cross-examination, it 
was easy to see that she had the entire sympathy of her 
auditors. And then, for the first time, Margaret’s stern 
features relaxed into an expression of sadness. None 
could better counterfeit tenderness, and the softer attri- 


THE TRIAL. 


351 


butes of a woman's character, than she ; and Mrs. Field- 
ing, perceiving- the sudden change in her daughter, sighed 
deeply. The alteration in her face was not so pronounced 
as Margaret’s, partaking more of a reflective character. 
And yet, all the while, in spite of their apparent indiffer- 
ence, the same fear which had kept them crouching in the 
drawing-room at Silverbridge swayed them now. Never, 
for an instant, did either feel relief from it. Cover it they 
might, by a mask of compassion or defiance ; but there it 
remained nevertheless, to chill their blood with vague 
forebodings. Of what strength is human nature capable 
at times ! What is this strange power which enables 
some of us to hide our quivering flesh with an outer coat- 
ing of metal as impenetrable as it is sometimes brilliant ^ 
The armor chosen and put on by Mrs. Fielding and Mar- 
garet, to conceal their trembling forms, had no lustre. It 
was gray and unpolished, and in it were caught no friendly 
gleams of ease or hope. But the force of will which had 
brought it forth knew how to preserve it intact. 

Professor Hoveden, who was the next witness, gave his 
testimony in a calm, straightforward way, which of itself 
did much to convince the listeners of its truth. He re- 
lated all the incidents of the journey from Santa Fe to 
Independence ; deposed to the request to have the rear of 
the stage separated from the front ; to the doubts which 
arose in his mind in consequence of the real or fancied 
change in Miss Hericourt’s voice ; his certainty in regard 
to the identity of Margaret ; and, finally, to finding the 
handkerchief marked with the name of Anastasia Heri- 
court near the spot where the lady had been lost, or been 
brought by the Indians who had captured her. All this 
produced a greater impression even than did the evidence 
given by the plaintiff ; and, as in Cordelia’s case, no attempt 
was made by the defence to shake his testimony by cross- 
examination, the suit seemed to be going all one way. 


352 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE, 


But the witness on whom the plaintiff placed the most 
dependence was to come. 

Castaly Fielding was Cordelia’s main support, and it 
had been hoped that the Superior of Our Lady of Guada- 
loupe would have added her evidence to that of the young 
girl. But all attempts to find this lady had proved una- 
vailing. It had been ascertained only that she had left 
the convent for the United States a short time previously, 
and her whereabouts at present was unknown. This had 
been a cruel disappointment to Cordelia and the Professor, 
who knew how important the Superior’s presence would 
be ; and their hopes had consequently centred themselves 
upon Castaly. When the girl took the stand, the Pro- 
fessor and Mr. Burton exchanged significant glances ; and 
the defendants summoned all their energies to hear her 
story, of which they knew the substance. As Castaly, 
standing erect, took the oath in clear, fearless tones, a 
murmur of admiration ran through the large assembly. 
Then, with a courteous request from the judge to be 
seated, the examination began. Passing over the prelimi- 
naries of age, residence, relationship to the defendants, 
etc., we come to the main points of the evidence. 

“Were you in Santa F'e, Miss Fielding, in the year 

1855?” 

“Yes.” 

“ How old were you then } ” 

“ Ten years of age.” 

“ How did you leave Santa Fe } ” 

“ In a stage-coach with my father.” 

“ Which seat in the stage did you occupy ? ” 

“The third from the end.” 

“Will you kindly point it out on this diagram 

Castaly took the paper, and marked upon it with a 
pencil the seat she had occupied. 

“Do you recollect occupying that seat, or have you 
only been told that you had it ? ” 


THE TRIAL. 


353 


I recollect it distinctly.” 

“Who sat in the other two seats, — those forming the 
rear compartment ” 

“Miss Anastasia Hericonrt, Mrs. Aldergrove, and the 
young lady calling herself Miss Cordelia Hericourt.” 

“ Have you seen these ladies since } ” 

“ Yes : one of them is my step-mother ; the other is said 
to be her niece, and lives with her. The third I have 
never seen since that dreadful night.” 

“ What night } ” 

“The night on which she disappeared. I have reason 
to believe that this lady was Miss Anastasia Hericourt.” 

“And the others ^ ” 

“ I have equal reason to believe them to be Mrs. Aider- 
grove and her daughter Margaret.” 

“Now, Miss Fielding, will you be kind enough to tell 
the court and the jury why you think the two ladies who 
are the defendants in this case, to be Mrs. Aldergrove and 
Miss Aldergrove } You must be careful to state facts, and 
not mere suppositions and opinions.” The lawyer looked 
earnestly at the young girl who was bearing herself so 
bravely and truthfully ; and the jury craned their necks 
forward, as if fearful of losing a word of what was to come. 
The counsel for the defence made his face as expression- 
less as possible, and Mrs. Fielding and Margaret betrayed 
no emotion. But the audience, like the jury, was in a 
fever-heat of expectation. 

“ My father and I occupied a seat together,” began the 
girl, in a clear, deliberate tone. “It was the one next to 
the compartment belonging to the three ladies. On this 
particular night I could not sleep, for I fancied I heard 
wolves howling on the prairie ; and, as I sat with closed 
eyes, I thought, too, that some one was whispering behind 
me. Every one in the front compartment of the stage 
was sound asleep. I heard the words ‘M^'-ther’ and 


354 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


* Margaret.’ I listened attentively ; and, finding the whis- 
pering to continue, I got up on my knees, impelled by a 
strange fascination, and peered through a tiny hole which 
I discovered in the buffalo-robe serving as a partition be- 
tween one compartment and the other. Although there 
was but little light, I could see plainly enough to recognize 
the forms of the ladies distinctly. One of them sat alone 
on the first seat. On the back-seat were the two others, 
and one of the latter was asleep. I heard the lady on 
the front seat say in a low tone, ‘ O Margaret ! is it 
necessary to do this.^’ And the other answered, ‘Mother, 
I have made up my mind it must be done, and I will do 
it.’ There was more whispering, which I could not hear 
very well ; and then the young lady. Miss Cordelia Heri- 
court as she was called, rose, and unfastened the curtain, 
which partly formed the back of the stage. The moon- 
light, which penetrated the compartment, allowed me to 
see clearly the faces of the occupants. The lady sitting 
by herself was crouching on the seat in an attitude of 
terror, with her hands pressed to her ears. The young 
lady, having rolled up the curtain, unbuckled the strap 
which supported the back on one side ; and after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, during which she gazed at the face of 
the sleeping lady, she unfastened the remaining strap on 
the opposite side. She held the back in its place for an 
instant, and then suddenly let it go, giving, at the same 
time, a vigorous push to the lady, who leaned heavily 
against it. I saw the sleeping form thrown violently 
backward, and I thought I heard it strike the ground as 
the stage rolled on. Terrified by what I had heard and 
seen, I sank down upon my seat again, and did not move 
till morning.” 

Castaly paused. The horror of the court and the jury 
at her recital, made, as it was, with all the fervor of truth, 
was intense ; and for some moments a subdued excitement 


THE TRIAL. 


355 


prevailed among the hearers. Dark, angry glances were 
cast upon the defendants, who, calm and collected, displayed 
very little interest in what had been said. The lawyer 
for the plaintiff, observing the impression that had been 
made, hastened to improve his advantage. 

**Miss Fielding,” he said, “from what you saw of the. 
events of that night, are you prepared to say who was 
pushed out of the stage, and who' committed the deed.?” 

“I am prepared to say who committed the deed. It 
was one of the defendants yonder,” indicating Margaret. 
“The one who was pushed out, — fell out, as it was sup- 
posed, — they said was Mrs. Aldergrove ; but I do not 
believe it was she.” 

“You think the remaining ladies in the stage were the 
present defendants in court .? ” 

“The same,” said Castaly, looking at them unflinch- 
ingly. 

“What makes you think so .? ” 

“ Because the younger one was called Margaret by the 
elder; because they spoke of the other lady as 'Anas- 
tasia ; ’ and, in the years that I have lived with them, I 
have repeatedly heard them call each other 'mother’ and 
' Margaret ; ’ because there were no reasons for killing 
Mrs. Aldergrove, while there were many reasons why 
Mrs. Aldergrove and her daughter should kill Miss Heri- 
court ; and, finally, because what I saw explains fully an 
event which actually happened.” 

The lawyer seemed quite satisfied, and had no further 
questions to ask. Turning to the counsel on the other 
side, with a look of triumph he could not wholly conceal, 
he said briefly, “You can take the witness. ” 

The lawyer rose to begin his cross-examination in a 
calm, cold manner, giving evidence of the slight impres- 
sion produced by Castaly’s story. The sentiment of the 
entire court-room was against his clients, he knew ; but 


356 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


he succeeded in preserving an impassiveness which 
announced his belief in the strength of his cause. 

“Miss Fielding,” he began, in a dry tone, fixing his 
eyes steadily on the girl, “ did you mention to your father 
what you had seen } ” 

“ I tried to tell him about it the next morning.” 

“And what did he say.^” 

“I thought it had all been a dream at the time, and 
spoke of it as such ; but my father did not care to hear it, 
so I said nothing more about it. I knew later, however, 
that it had not been a dream.” 

“ Yes, so you have told us. You have a brother, Miss 
Fielding, have you not } ” 

“ Yes,” said Castaly, in some wonder. 

“ Do you know of any instance in which he has upheld 
as the truth that which, in reality, was a dream ? ” 

“ Why, yes,” answered the girl frankly. “ He dreamed, 
not long ago, that he saw men forcing their way, during 
the night, into our house at Silverbridge. Mrs. Fielding 
punished him for declaring to be the truth that which she 
thought to be wilful falsehood. But I was sure he had 
dreamed the whole story. He often confounds his dreams 
with realities.” 

Castaly had no sooner uttered these words than she 
regretted them, and she regretted them the more when 
the lawyer’s pitiless tones again were heard. 

“How do you know. Miss Fielding, that your story is 
not a dream ? ” he asked. 

“Because I saw all that I have related,” faltered Castaly, 
“and because it is an explanation of a real event.” 

“Ah, yes! But your brother saw the men enter the 
house, did he not ? ” 

“ He thought he did.” 

“ He was certain of it ? ” 

‘‘Yes.” 


THE TRIAL, 


357 


*‘As certain as you are now?” 

“ Yes ; but there was no foundation for his story.” 

‘‘That will do, Miss Fielding. But stop a moment,” he 
added. “Are you sure the defendants in this case are 
mother and daughter ? ” 

“ I suspect it to be so.” 

“ But are you sure ? ” 

“ As sure as I can be of any thing not wholly within 
my own knowledge,” answered Castaly. “ I have said I 
have often heard Mrs. Fielding inadvertently, apparently, 
call the other ‘ Margaret,’ and then instantly and with 
embarrassment correct herself, and say ‘Cordelia.’ I have 
also heard her whom I believe to be Margaret Aldergrove 
call Mrs. Fielding ‘mother;’ and once I found, in an old 
book left by one of them in the summer-house, a letter 
addressed to ‘ Miss Margaret Aldergrove,’ and which Miss 
Cordelia, as she is styled, was very much afraid I had 
read. Of course, I had not,” said Castaly indignantly. 

“ You are quite sure you did not dream these things ?” 

“Yes, quite sure.” 

“Well, we will let you remain sure, if you so prefer. 
That will do. Miss Fielding.” 

Castaly resumed her seat much crestfallen. She had 
been so pathetically in earnest, and had told her story in 
so straightforward a way, that opinion had been universally 
in favor of the plaintiff. But at this peculiar doubt cast 
upon the truth of her testimony by the counsel for the 
defence, much discussion arose ; and it was easy to see 
that further effort on her part to impress the court with 
a sense of the correctness of her story would be useless. 

Paul Lament was the next witness called ; and Cordelia, 
who saw him then for the first time since the opening of 
the trial, felt the blood rush suddenly to her face, and 
every thing connected with the immediate surroundings 
seemingly fade away, to give place to reflections of a far 


358 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


different character. How would he bear himself, she 
wondered } And what could he be able to say that would 
give her the encouragement she needed doubly, now that 
Castaly’s evidence had lost, so to speak, all importance 
Lament allowed his eyes to meet hers but once as he took 
the stand. It was not an easy task that he had to perform, 
by any means ; and he knew how much depended upon 
his manner of acquitting himself. To rise boldly, and 
relate the wrongs of the woman he loved, and, at ,the 
same time, conceal a portion of his interest, was difficult 
indeed. But it was, perhaps, the presence of the defend- 
ants, and the sight of their hard features imbued with a 
spirit of well-directed hypocrisy, that relieved him some- 
what, and made him grow eloquent as he spoke. He felt, 
however, that Cordelia watched him throughout with 
feverish expectancy, hanging upon his testimony as a 
child might cling to an only protector. 

He dwelt for some time upon the character of the plain- 
tiff, which he had learned to know so well ; upon her life 
in Santa Fe, where she had been forsaken by her relatives ; 
upon her subsequent struggles ; the hopes she had been 
forced to renounce, and the misery she had suffered. He 
referred to the probable death of the real Miss Hericourt 
in tones of horror and indignation, during which the 
defendants sat, to all appearance, unmoved. But Lament 
would hardly have borne himself with such courage could 
he have suspected for an instant the terrible disappoint- 
ment in store for him. 

The letter written to him by old Miss Hericourt, and 
announcing her departure from Santa Fe with the Alder- 
groves, was the basis upon which the whole strength of 
his evidence rested. It had been taken by him that morn- 
ing from a packet of yellow-tinged papers, which he had 
not looked at for years. On leaving New Mexico he had 
gathered up his letters and manuscripts, and thrown them 


THE TRIAL. 


359 


into a small trunk, which had remained unopened ever 
since. But the letter among them was not forgotten ; and, 
almost in ecstasy at the contemplation of the service he 
might render to Cordelia by its production, he had, before 
coming to the scene of the trial that day, untied the faded 
pink ribbon that bound the papers together. The musty 
odor that was exhaled from the trunk, and the sight of 
the half-worn sheets, carried him back in fancy to events 
long ago forgotten, and to hopes which he had once fondly 
cherished, but never realized. The precious document was 
removed with trembling fingers and a sad smile from the 
midst of the others, which had been its companions for so 
long; and, having read it through once. Lament placed it 
carefully in his pocket-book.. 

The fact that this letter was in his possession had lent 
him an increase of zeal and animation, particularly as the 
disastrous effect produced by Castaly’s evidence would, he 
thought, be counteracted by the contents of the small 
sheet of paper written in Miss Hericourt’s delicate hand. 
So when he referred, in the course of his remarks, to hav- 
ing received such a letter from her, his voice naturally had 
a triumphant ring. 

“You say Miss Hericourt informed you by letter of 
her departure from Santa Fe.^” inquired the counsel for,* 
the plaintiff calmly. “Have you that letter still, Mr. 
Lament } ” 

“Yes, I have it with me.” 

“ Be so kind, then, as to produce it,” said the lawyer, in 
a tone of satisfaction. 

Lament glanced at Cordelia, who was regarding him 
earnestly. His look seemed to bid her take courage ; and, 
indeed, the mention of the letter, of whose existence she 
had not even been aware, had filled her anew with hope 
and strength. Miss Hericourt had doubtless given therein 
the particulars of her departure, and made reference to 


360 A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 

the removal of her niece to the convent. If so, what bet- 
ter proof could she have of her cousin’s baseness } She 
looked again at Lamont, almost imploringly, as he thrust 
his hand into his pocket in search of the paper. A breath- 
less silence reigned in the court-room, only broken by the 
buzzing of a few flies against the window-panes, through 
which the broad noonday glare penetrated but moderately, 
in consequence of the blinds of sober green. Every eye 
was fixed upon Lamont, who evidently had forgotten in 
which pocket he had placed the letter; for he appeared a 
little confused, and hastily sought it elsewhere than the 
place in which he had supposed it to be. A sudden change 
had passed meanwhile over the stony features of the de- 
fendants, — a look of such utter terror that it was fortunate 
all were too much engrossed in watching Lamont to ob- 
serve the alteration of their faces. Margaret’s long, slen- 
der fingers twisted themselves nervously together, and 
a cold perspiration broke out upon her forehead. Mrs. 
Fielding had started forward, and with frightened eyes was 
regarding Lamont, whose confusion had given way to 
astonishment as he still sought for the letter, first in one 
pocket, and then in the other. 

‘"Well,” inquired the lawyer, in a tone of mingled impa- 
tience and anxiety, ‘‘have you the letter, Mr. Lamont ” 

“ I had it,” he replied, in a voice quite at variance with 
his former animation. “ I had it here in this pocket. 
I put it there myself this morning.” 

“Do you mean that you have lost it } ” asked the lawyer, 
with a gesture of annoyance. 

“ It has been stolen from me. It was in my pocket- 
book. That has gone too,” said Lamont hopelessly. He 
thrust his hand once more into the breast of his coat, as if 
in hope of yet finding the letter there. “No, no, it is 
gone, and my money as well,” he ^id finally. “ I do not 
care about the money, — that does not matter, — but the 


THE TRIAL. 


361 


letter. It is a terrible loss.” He appeared for the moment 
utterly overcome by the blow, and pressed his hand to his 
forehead, as if trying to collect his thoughts. “ I remem- 
ber,” he said mechanically, “ that some one brushed against 
me rudely, as I came up the stairs leading to the court- 
room to-day. The «rowd was so great, that the ascent was 
necessarily a slow one. I was obliged to stop at intervals, 
and it was during one of these that I felt a man press 
roughly against me. He must have stolen my pocket- 
book, which contained the letter. I can account for its 
loss in no other way.” 

The quiet of the court-room gave place suddenly to the 
most intense excitement, the subdued hum of voices rising 
gradually into definite expressions. Lamont closed his 
eyes, not daring to meet Cordelia’s despairing glance ; while 
she, whose hopefulness was thus cast rudely aside by a 
commonplace and unexpected trifle, turned her head aside, 
fearing he might see the tears which involuntarily had 
risen to her eyes, and which she knew would make his 
disappointment yet harder to bear. 

But on the faces of the defendants how keen a joy was 
marked ! Subdued the light in the court -room might be 
to all who sat there, but to them it was filled with rays of 
surpassing brilliancy. Who would say that in the shadow 
of these women lurked no friendly genius who presided 
over their destinies, and guided them safely past every 
danger } 

“This is very unfortunate,” said the counsel for the 
plaintiff, almost testily. “The letter was of vital impor- 
tance. Do you recall the contents distinctly enough to 
swear to them, Mr. Lamont ^ ” 

“Why, yes,” said Lamont, recovering himself, and 
brightening a little. “ I remember the contents well, for I 
read the letter this morning. Miss Hericourt wrote to an- 
nounce her departure from Santa Fe with the two Alder- 


362 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


groves, while her niece, Cordelia, was to remain behind 
in the convent of Our Lady of Guadaloupe. I saw Miss 
Hericourt after the receipt of the letter, and spoke to her 
about the journey in Miss Aldergrove’s presence. It was 
I also who superintended Miss Cordelia Hericourt’s re- 
moval to the convent.” 

“Are you prepared to swear that the young lady who 
remained in Santa Fe was Miss Hericourt’s niece ” 

“Yes. I knew her intimately, while I had but a formal 
acquaintance with Miss Aldergrove.” 

“Do you recognize the plaintiff to be Cordelia Heri- 
court ? ” 

“ I do,” said Lamont firmly. “ I have not the shadow 
of a doubt on the subject.” 

“Very well,” said the counsel, apparently satisfied. 
“That will do, Mr. Lamont.” 

And then came the cross-examination, which was as com- 
plete as possible, and as shrewd as the circumstances of 
the case required. Every material point was gone over, 
but nothing calculated to weaken the force of the evidence 
was elicited. On the contrary, several things tending to 
show the identity of the plaintiff with Cordelia Hericourt 
were brought to light, very much to the disgust of the de- 
fendant’s lawyer. But he had not yet done with Lamont. 

“What is your profession, Mr. Lamont?” he inquired 
with asperity. 

“ I am a literary man.” 

“ Has that always been your profession ? ” 

Lamont colored; but he answered bravely, “ No : I was 
once a Roman-Catholic priest.” 

“Ah! you were once a Roman-Catholic priest? And 
why are you not still a priest ? ” 

“ Because I preferred to renounce the priesthood.” 

“Why?” 

I thought it was my duty to do so.” 


THE TRIAL. 363 

May it please the court,” cried Mr. Burton, rising ex- 
citedly, ‘‘ this has nothing to do with the case.” 

“ I beg my learned brother’s pardon,” said the lawyer 
for the defence, waving his hand : “it has a good deal to 
do with it, as I shall presently show.” 

“Go on,” said the judge. 

“You renounced the priesthood, and you were deposed, 
were you not } ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Now, Mr. Lamont, were you not in love with the lady 
whom you now say is Cordelia Hericourt .?” 

Mr. Burton again rose to interpose an objection, but 
Lamont motioned him to be silent. 

“ I was much attached to Cordelia Hericourt,” he said 
gravely, “ and I still am. But, if you mean to imply that 
I left the priesthood on that account, you are as false as 
your clients.” 

“ We shall see, we shall see,” said the lawyer, nodding 
his head wisely. “ In the mean time I have to ask that 
the latter part of the witness’s answer be stricken out.” 

“ It will be stricken out,” said the judge. 

“ You thought she had money ” resumed the lawyer. 

“I did not think on the subject in that connection.” 

“You knew she had money, did you not.?” 

“ I knew she had money which she intended to devote 
to a religious purpose.” 

“ And if she niarried you, an apostate priest, the money 
would not be so devoted .? ” 

“ I never intended to marry her, and do not now intend 
to do so,” said Lamont firmly. “ I left the priesthood for 
reasons which I know were pure and honorable.” 

“ Ah, yes ! ” said the lawyer, nodding again. “ And so 
you loved her without intending to marry her. That will 
do, Mr. Lamont.” 

“ No,” said Mr. Burton, rising, and speaking with great 


3^4 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


dignity, ^‘it will not do. You have made an attempt to 
outrage the witness, — one which is without precedent in 
all my experience at the bar. I shall therefore insist, your 
Honor, that he be allowed to relate all the facts connected 
with his leaving the priesthood. We have nothing to fear 
if the whole truth be told.” 

“That is only right,” said the judge. “The witness 
may make any statement he chooses.” 

Lament then, with clearness and frankness, detailed all 
the circumstances allied to the renunciation of his priestly 
vows. He omitted nothing which related to his motives ; 
and, when he left the stand, the minds of the court, the 
jury, and the audience, were strongly impressed with a 
sense of his upright and honest conduct, while the coun- 
sel for the defendants was ashamed of his pitiful course. 

As for Cordelia, at first overwhelmed with mortification 
for herself and compassion for Lamont, she felt her love 
grow stronger at every word he spoke. Here was a man 
whom she was glad indeed to call friend. She followed 
him with her eyes as he left the witness-stand, and her 
gaze did not leave him until he was lost in the crowd. 

Then she thought of the Superior. Could she have 
been present to testify to her residence in the convent, 
all would yet go well. Conclusive as Lament’s testimony 
had been, it had probably lost some of its force with the 
jury, owing to the fact of his being what is commonly 
termed a “renegade priest.” 

Fate, thought poor Cordelia, was surely against her just 
now. Castaly’s evidence had, of course, passed for naught. 
Lament’s inability to produce the letter had robbed his 
testimony of some of its value, while her own evidence 
had been weakened by the inability to find the Superior. 
For, although she and the latter had not parted in a very 
friendly spirit, Cordelia felt that nrother Teresa would at 
least identify her satisfactorily. If she could prove con- 


THE TRIAL, 


3^5 


clusively to the jury that she was the person who remained 
in Santa Fe, and lived for some time in the convent, vic- 
tory was assured. Thus far the evidence had been precise 
on this point. But it must be confessed, that a little less 
confidence on the part of her counsel might have led to 
more effort to obtain additional testimony. Still, it was 
not apparent how the positive assertions of Cordelia and 
Lament could be counteracted, supported as they were by 
the strongest collateral circumstances, and by the evidence 
of Castaly and the Professor. 

And, with matters standing thus, the plaintiff closed her 
case on the second day of the trial. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


THE VERDICT. 

“ Tremble, thou wretch, 

That hast within thee undivulged crimes, 

Unwhipped of justice.” 

King Lear. 

When the defence opened its case on the fifth day, and 
Margaret took the stand, the most intense interest was 
excited among the spectators. Her likeness to Cordelia, 
as has been before said, did not extend beyond a physical 
limit ; and the contrast between the former’s unaffected 
speech, and Margaret’s words delivered with half-closed 
eyes and compressed lips, was very marked. And yet her 
story was told so consistently, that it was impossible for 
many to doubt its truth. In the midst of it also crept 
evidences of sympathy for the misguided cousin who 
sought to wrong her, and more than once she stopped in 
the course of her testimony to cast upon Cordelia a look 
of intense pity. Mrs. Fielding sat by, and gazed upon her 
daughter with a heart overflowing with admiration. And 
even to Lamont and the Professor, who watched and un- 
derstood her, there was something about Margaret’s well- 
conceived and well-uttered sentences that partook almost 
of the sublime. Notwithstanding their contempt for the 
part she played, the heroism of her conduct was not lost 
upon them ; and its influence even extended to Cordelia. 

366 


THE VERDICT. 


367 


Of what glorious results was a nature such as Margaret’s 
capable ! Powers of endurance, concentration, and perse- 
verance were displayed by her in so excellent a manner, 
that it was pitiable to see them exercised upon ends so 
degrading. Her whole life since she had known of the 
existence of her cousins’ fortune had been devoted to the 
securing of the money. She had succeeded in her pur- 
pose, and had enjoyed the delights of wealth. The bodily 
ease which accompanies riches had also been hers. Should 
she lose these things now, existence would be worse than 
a blank, and the talents she had so artfully cultivated 
would represent but so much energy expended in the 
wrong direction. With the full sense of this, she gave 
her evidence in a way which was likely to secure for her 
the confidence of the court and auditors. She declared 
herself to be Cordelia Hericourt, and affirmed that she had 
left Santa Fe in company with her aunt. Miss Anastasia 
Hericourt, — now Mrs. Fielding, the co-defendant in the 
suit, — and her cousin, Mrs. Aldergrove. Her other cousin, 
Margaret Aldergrove, the plaintiff, who was not very well, 
preferred to remain in Santa Fe. Why she did so, the 
witness was unable to state ; but she had her reasons for 
the belief which she entertained on the subject, and which 
she would rather not state. She exhibited the register 
of the stage-office, and the way-bill, both duly certified, and 
showing that Cordelia Hericourt was one of the passen- 
gers on the day specified. This produced a strong effect 
on the court and the jury. On the journey from Santa 
Fe, her cousin, Mrs. Aldergrove, the mother of the plain- 
tiff, had fallen out of the stage in her sleep, and could not 
afterwards be found. The witness and her aunt, the co- 
defendant now in court, went to France, and obtained the 
money that belonged to them. She herself had gone no 
farther than Paris, having been taken seriously ill in that 
city ; but her aunt proceeded to Avignon with the evidence, 


368 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


and with the certificate of her physician that Cordelia 
Hericourt was too ill to accompany her. This certificate 
was produced. The claim to the fortune, witness con- 
tinued, had been at once recognized by the authorities, 
and especially by the Bishop of Avignon, who had com- 
municated with the Bishop of Santa Fe in regard to the 
Hericourts, and received from him copies of their photo- 
graphs. Miss Anastasia Hericourt was subsequently 
married to Mr. Fielding, who had been one of the passen- 
gers in the stage : and the marriage certificate was pro- 
duced, showing that on the i8th of July, 1859, 
American legation in Paris, Edward Sanford F^ielding had 
wedded Anastasia Plericourt ; the witnesses being the 
American minister to France, Rene Guilbert d’Hericourt, 
and Cordelia Hericourt. 

The witness denied emphatically that she had pushed 
her cousin, Mrs. Aldergrove, out of the stage. What 
object could she have had in so doing? 

The cross-examination began with a series of sharp in- 
terrogations in relation to her early life, her education, 
whom she had known, and other matters calculated to 
exhibit her knowledge of the Hericourts. But Margaret 
proved herself equal to the occasion ; for she never hesi- 
tated for an answer, nor deviated in the slightest degree 
from the story she had told, and the system of probabilities 
she had assumed as the basis of her testimony. Her 7iou 
mi ricordos were few and far between. 

Obviously, however, the whole case turned on the point 
as to which of the two, Cordelia Hericourt or Margaret 
Aldergrove, had remained in Santa Fe. Thus far the 
evidence was, to say the least, conflicting. Cordelia began 
to feel that the testimony of the Superior of Our Lady 
of Guadaloupe was absolutely necessary for the success 
of her cause ; and yet this was something she had been 
unable to obtain, notwithstanding all her efforts. What, 


THE VERDICT 


369 


then, was her astonishment, when, in the midst of her 
thoughts, she heard the voice of the crier call out in a 
loud, resonant tone, “ Mother Teresa ! ” 

Raising her eyes, Cordelia saw the portly figure of the 
Superior enter the court-room from the judge’s private 
chamber, in which she had been sitting. Slowly, as if 
thoroughly impressed with the duty imposed upon her, 
Mother Teresa walked to the witness-stand, and took the 
oath. Had old Miss Hericourt herself suddenly arisen in 
the midst of the assembly, her appearance could hardly 
have created more consternation and amazement among 
some of those present than did the Superior’s. How she 
got there, neither Cordelia nor her counsel could discover ; 
but both presumed that Margaret and her mother, know- 
ing, doubtless, that an attempt would be made by the 
plaintiff to summon the Superior, had anticipated matters 
by securing her for themselves. But her presence called 
forth such hope in Cordelia’s breast as had not been there 
since the opening of the trial. Summoned by the defence 
she might be ; but, when it came to the question of Cor- 
delia’s identity, there was little doubt of what the result 
would be. When Mother Teresa, therefore, began to tes- 
tify, it was an exciting moment for many in the court- 
room. Apart from all else, it was impossible for Cordelia 
to see this stern, somewhat gloomy, figure, without expe- 
riencing a keen emotion ; and Lamont, peering through 
the crowd to catch a glimpse of the witness, felt, in spite 
of the disagreeable recollections her face recalled, a re- 
newal of much that he had looked upon as banished com- 
pletely from his life. She seemed to be a connecting-link 
between himself and Cordelia, who -were now so widely 
separated ; and both, as they regarded her, saw the present, 
with its forcible reality and sharp significance, slip imper- 
ceptibly away, to give rise to other scenes witnessed and 
endured long ago, and long ago thought to be buried. 


370 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


The Superior had changed very little since we last saw 
her close the resounding doors of the convent upon Cor- 
delia Hericourt. Her face looked no older, and her severe 
black gown, with the long cross and chain hanging from 
her side, needed but the accessories of a bunch of keys, a 
pair of slippered feet, and the grim surroundings of Our 
Lady of Guadaloupe, to make Lament and Cordelia fancy 
they had seen her but yesterday. 

After the usual preliminary examination, the questions 
of the defendant’s counsel bore upon the matters at issue. 

“Are you acquainted with Miss Cordelia Hericourt?’^ 
he inquired in his blandest manner. 

“ I am.” 

“ Do you see her now in the court-room .? If so, be 
good enough to point her out.” 

“I see her. She sits by your side,” said Mother Teresa 
unhesitatingly. 

If Cordelia had been struck by lightning, her face could 
not have exhibited a more horrified expression than it did 
at this answer, which was enforced by the Superior point- 
ing to Margaret, and adding, “Yes, I recognize her dis- 
tinctly. She is Cordelia Hericourt.” 

“Did she ever stay with you at the convent of Our 
Lady of Guadaloupe in Santa Fe.^” 

“ No : she occasionally visited the convent, but she 
never staid there longer than an hour or two at a time.” 

“Did any one calling herself Cordelia Hericourt ever 
stay with you for several months } ” 

“Yes: a young lady whom I recognize in the person 
who sits there (pointing with one of her long, bony fingers 
at Cordelia), and whom I now know to be Margaret Alder- 
grove, deceived me by representing herself to be Cordelia 
Hericourt. She had not been long in the convent before 
I began to suspect she was an impostor. She had been 
brought there by an apostate priest, one Paul Lamont, 


THE VERDICT. 


371 


who also said she was Cordelia Hericourt, and for love of 
whom he had renounced the priesthood. Her manners 
and sentiments were altogether different from those of 
the Cordelia Hericourt I had known/' continued the Su- 
perior with a sigh. “ Her views of religion were not 
such as a girl like Cordelia would have entertained. 
Still, I was not fully convinced of the deception practised 
upon me until after her departure. Then I learned that 
the real Cordelia Hericourt had been gone for several 
months. Inquiry at the stage-office, and examination of 
the passenger-register, confirmed the rumor. I knew 
then,” said the Superior, using a favorite expression, “that 
I had nourished a viper in my bosom.” 

“Do you know,” inquired the counsel, “why Margaret 
Aldergrove perpetrated this fraud upon you ” 

“ Certainly. She was in love with Paul Lament, and he 
was in love with Cordelia Hericourt. I think her object 
was to impose upon him, and induce him to marry her.” 

“You are sure you recognize one of the defendants to 
be Cordelia Hericourt ? ” 

“ There is no doubt of her being Cordelia Hericourt,” 
said the Superior emphatically. “ The plaintiff is her 
exact image ; but, to me, there are differences between 
them that others, perhaps, would not detect. Besides, 
Cordelia has often told me of a means of distinguishing 
her from her cousin.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said the counsel in some surprise, while the 
court and spectators displayed a fresh interest. The 
Professor’s eyes met Cordelia’s, and he nodded encoura- 
gingly to her. 

“ What is this difference between them 1 ” inquired the 
lawyer. 

“ Miss Aldergrove had a little brown freckle or mole on 
the back of her neck, while Cordelia Hericourt had none,” 
said the Superior, rolling her eyes upward. 


372 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


Indeed ! ” said the counsel. “ If my learned brother/* 
he added, addressing Mr. Burton, “ has no objection, it 
might perhaps facilitate the ends of justice if he would 
advise his client to allow the jury to look at the back of 
her neck. Or perhaps it will be less annoying to her if 
she will permit me to examine it.” 

Cordelia rose instantly ; and her eyes fell upon Marga- 
ret, who was regarding her with an expression of curiosity 
quite devoid of the alarm she had expected to see. Was 
some fresh deception here involved ? Was this test des- 
tined to fail as the others had done } A choking sensa- 
tion rose in Cordelia’s throat, as, advancing to where the 
counsel sat, she saw the Superior gaze upon her with no 
sign of recognition. In vain did she glance appealingly 
at the hard, uncompromising features of the woman she 
knew so well. But, beyond the interest which the like- 
ness between the two girls naturally called forth, Mother 
Teresa’s countenance expressed nothing. 

Cordelia bowed her head silently, displaying the firm, 
graceful contour of her neck. She was conscious, in so 
doing, that Margaret’s calm smile rested upon her, im- 
parting a sense of uneasiness she could not well define. 

There was, of course, no mark to be seen upon the 
white flesh, from which the heavy masses of dark hair 
were drawn upward, and fastened in a thick knot. At 
this unexpected discovery, the Superior gave such a start 
that her chain of beads struck against the chair with a 
harsh sound. The counsel for the defence seemed utterly 
overwhelmed with astonishment, while the lawyer for the 
plaintiff smiled significantly. Cordelia, however, did not 
share his feelings. Something, she knew not what, hung 
over her threateningly, like a storm-cloud ready to burst 
through a blue summer sky. 

“ Perhaps it would be yet more conducive to the ends 
of justice,” said Mr. Burton, addressing the defendant’s 


THE VERDICT 


373 

counsel, '‘if your client would allow me to look at her 
neck.” 

The counsel was clearly annoyed at the turn affairs had 
taken, for he evidently expected to find the freckle on 
Cordelia’s neck. He was, however, obliged to consent to 
Mr. Burton’s proposition ; and, at his request, a moment 
later Margaret rose, after whispering something to Mrs. 
Fielding, and approached Mr. Burton without hesitation, 
meeting the Superior s steady glance with one equally as 
firm. Cordelia in the mean while had grown very pale, 
and sat with her hands tightly pressed together; while her 
parted lips and fixed eyes showed the suspense she was 
undergoing. 

Margaret wore about her neck a kerchief of fine muslin 
tied carelessly, the ends hanging loosely over the front 
of her gown. She expressed no surprise at the request 
made to her, that the back of her neck might be exam- 
ined ; but, in very much the same way as Cordelia had 
done, she bent her head, having previously pushed aside 
the muslin folds about her throat. A breathless silence 
reigned throughout the court-room ; and upon every face 
was marked intense expectancy, mingled with an excite- 
ment which, though subdued, might break forth momen- 
tarily into turbulence. The counsels, the jury, the entire 
court, in fact, leaned eagerly forward as Margaret thrust 
back the folds of her kerchief, exposing the pure white 
throat and neck which supported her proud head. 

There was no mark there ! 

Rubbing his eyes in confused astonishment, the counsel 
for the plaintiff fell back upon his chair; while the Supe- 
rior, with an exclamation, scanned Margaret’s features, and 
then fixed her eyes with a penetrating look upon Corde- 
lia, who, being in a measure prepared for this new evi- 
dence of her cousin’s dishonesty, sat quietly by with an 
expression of resigned hopelessness. But among the au- 


374 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


dience rose a clamor of tongues, and such agitation as 
had not previously been witnessed. Two only among 
them remained pale and silent. These were Lament and 
the Professor, who, side by side, witnessed Margaret’s 
triumph and Cordelia’s despair with feelings which pre- 
vented each from meeting the other’s glance. 

By and by, when something like order was restored, the 
Superior’s examination was continued. 

Who first called your attention to the existence of 
this mark on Miss Aldergrove’s neck, and its absence in 
Miss Hericourt } ” 

‘‘Miss Hericourt mentioned it to me first; and then the 
plaintiff. Miss Aldergrove as I believe her to be, spoke 
of it while she was with me in the convent. After that I 
examined her neck one afternoon while she was asleep, 
and found the spot she had indicated was discolored with 
tincture of iodine. She was probably then trying to re- 
move it.” 

Here Mr. Burton interposed by remarking that proba- 
bilities were not wanted, and that the witness must be 
good enough to confine herself to what she knew. He 
demanded that the latter part of the answer be stricken 
out. 

The judge so directed. 

The cross-examination revealed the facts that the wit- 
ness had had several interviews with the defendants, and 
had conversed with them in regard to the points of the 
case. When asked if she thought Margaret Aldergrove 
could have successfully imposed upon Lamont, she did 
not deny that it would have been difficult ; but he might 
have been Margaret’s accomplice for all she knew. In 
regard to the iodine stains, she admitted also that the 
excuse of a stiff neck had been given by her visitor, and 
that the remedy had been prescribed by a physician. 

In all other respects no serious inroads were made on 


THE VERDICT. 


375 


her evidence, but it was easy to see that she was greatly 
prejudiced against the plaintiff. 

As time went on, and the proceedings were thus draw- 
ing to a close, Cordelia grew sick and weary of it all. 
The confidence of success which, in the beginning, had 
sustained her, had entirely disappeared. Day by day, 
too, she had noted the Professor s changing expression. 
There were lines upon his face which had been traced 
by the sharp finger of disappointment ; and, although 
he sought continually to cheer her with words of com- 
fort and encouragement, she felt instinctively that they 
did not proceed from any consciousness of ultimate suc- 
cess. 

Finally, nothing remained but to hear Mrs. Field- 
ing’s testimony previously to summing up the case, and 
pronouncing judgment in favor of the plaintiff or the 
defendants. Mrs. Fielding’s story was substantially the 
same as Margaret’s, and contained nothing of special im- 
portance, except that she declared that the handkerchief 
found by the Professor was one she had lost, and that she 
produced the photographs which had been instrumental 
in securing the fortune. That of the younger lady might 
represent either Margaret or Cordelia, and the experts 
who examined it were unable to say definitely which of 
the girls had sat for it. As for the remaining portrait, it 
certainly was strikingly like Mrs. Fielding ; and, as the 
other lady had disappeared, no comparison could be made 
between the two. Occasionally some pathos intruded it- 
self upon Mrs. Fielding’s words. Was it likely, she asked 
sadly, that she and her niece would have returned to 
America, had they been impostors Would they volun- 
tarily have come to a place where exposure was inevitable.^ 
Surely not. And then her calmness, her evident pity for 
her unscrupulous cousin, the absence of all resentment, 
appealed powerfully to the court and the jury. She actu- 


376 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


ally at one time permitted a few tears to roll down her 
well-preserved cheek. 

Mr. Burton, in summing up for the plaintiff, made the 
most of the evidence that had been adduced in her behalf. 
He declared that the fraud had been initiated in the act 
of departure from Santa Fe, when Margaret Aldergrove 
had assumed Cordelia’s name, and Mrs. Aldergrove that 
of Miss Hericourt. He called attention to all the strong 
points in Cordelia’s and Lament’s evidence, and dwelt 
with terrible force on the frank and obviously truthful 
recital of Castaly ; contending that the defendants had 
tried to murder Miss Anastasia Hericourt, in order that 
they might be free from all interference in their nefarious 
schemes for getting possession of the money. And then, 
with a warm tribute to the devotion of Lamont and Pro- 
fessor Hoveden, who, in all her trials, had never lost faith 
in the plaintiff’s cause, he demanded a verdict for her who 
came into court with a pure heart, in search of the justice 
of which hitherto she had been deprived. 

The counsel for the defence spoke with the confidence 
of one who was sure of his case. There was one point, 
however, upon which he hoped the jury would not doubt. 
The attempt had been made, on the evidence of an hysteri- 
cal girl, to fix the crime of murder on his clients. Let the 
jury rebuke that effort in the way it deserved. The money 
was nothing in comparison with the charge of fraud and 
crime ; but it must, he continued, be apparent to every 
one of the jury, and to all within the sound of his voice, 
that the trial had triumphantly established the innocence 
of his clients, and their right to the names they bore. He 
then made a searching analysis of the evidence for and 
against his clients ; and, with an eloquent appeal to the 
jury to do their duty fearlessly, he sat down, confident 
that his case was already won. 

The judge, in charging the jury, directed their atten- 


THE VERDICT. 


377 


tion to the conflicting character of much of the evidence. 
He reminded them that they were not to be influenced by 
any thing but the evidence, as they understood it ; and 
then, with a few remarks on the law applicable to the 
case, he placed the question clearly before them. If they 
believed the plaintiff to be Cordelia Hericourt, they must 
find for her on all the points involved. If, however, they 
believed Mrs. Fielding to be Miss Anastasia Hericourt, 
and the other defendant to be Cordelia Hericourt, they 
must render a verdict in their favor. The difficulties of 
the case, he remarked, were greatly increased by the 
remarkable resemblance between the plaintiff and the 
younger defendant, and by, as he understood, an equally 
strong likeness between the other defendant and the lady 
who had disappeared so mysteriously from the stage. 

When the jury left the court-room to decide upon the 
verdict, an almost unbroken silence reigned for a while. 
Lament and the Professor talked together in low tones ; 
but on each countenance was visible a nervous expectancy, 
almost as intense as that displayed by the plaintiff and 
the defendants. Now and then one of the latter would 
bend forward to whisper to the other, but there was no 
regular interchange of remarks between them. Through 
the long, narrow windows the sun fell slantwise, touching 
the people, and then gliding slowly onward until it rested 
upon Cordelia, and turned a fold of Margaret’s kerchief 
into gold. The faint summer breeze stirring without 
strove vainly to penetrate the green blinds, and sweep 
through the assembly. In the mean whde, time was pass- 
ing quickly. The large clock at the far end of the court- 
room ticked with a loud, discordant sound, as its giant 
hands moved swiftly forward. Some of the people already 
began to show signs of impatience. Lament spoke no 
longer, but sat, with folded arms and downcast eyes, wait- 
ing for the door at the other side of the apartment to open. 


3/8 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


What was passing behind it ? What words were being 
spoken ? What judgment pronounced ? Oh, that he 
might burst it open, and advance into the midst of the 
men who there took counsel with each other ! And 
yet, strange inconsistency ! he wished it might remain 
closed forever. Every instant he turned his head toward 
those silent but expressive panels with a glance of forced 
composure, which relapsed almost immediately into rev- 
ery. 

And the Professor, sitting there in the soft light, how 
did he bear himself? His face hardly betrayed anxiety 
as his eyes, fixed, not upon the door through which the 
jury would shortly enter, but upon the two women whose 
fate was to be decided, sought to discover that which their 
stern countenances failed to reveal. Be the verdict what 
it might, he longed, with restless impatience, to hear it. 
His mood was a strange contrast to that of Lamont, whose 
calm dignity, though occasionally enlivened by a passing 
gleam of emotion, was never absent. 

The heat was momentarily growing more intense, and 
Margaret had just drawn from her pocket a small black 
fan with which to cool her flushed cheeks, when suddenly 
the door opened, and the jury filed solemnly into the court- 
room. Their faces were as absolutely wanting in expres- 
sion as that of the big clock, and nothing in their attitudes 
announced what was to come. The murmur of conver- 
sation ceased abruptly. Lamont drew himself up with 
determination ; and the Professor, trembling with excite- 
ment, bent forward with every nerve strained to its utmost. 
Cordelia outwardly was calm, and no one would have sus- 
pected the disquiet which filled her breast to overflowing. 
There was no visible alteration in the manner of the 
defendants, except that Margaret, with her head thrown 
well back, had half closed her eyes, — a habit she had when 
laboring under a weight of feeling. 


THE VERDICT. 


379 


The clerk of the court rose, and went through the form 
of address in tones that were full and distinct. 

Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a 
verdict ? ” 

“We have,” replied the foreman. 

“ How say you ” continued the clerk. “Do you find 
for the plaintiff, or the defendants } ” 

There was a pause. Margaret’s face grew suddenly 
deathly white, and her fingers tightened on the arms of 
her chair. 

“ For the defendants,” was the answer, delivered delib- 
erately and impressively. 

Margaret relaxed her hold upon the chair, and clasped 
her hands convulsively together. A look of mingled relief 
and triumph shot from beneath her lids toward Cordelia, 
who remained cold and motionless, gazing blankly before 
her at the people, who looked like an indistinct mass afar 
off. Mrs. Fielding rose, and laid her hand on Margaret’s 
arm with a gesture of delight ; and together they received 
the congratulations of the few who approached them. A 
low, whispering sound, swelling louder and louder, rose 
from the listeners. Now it expressed delight at the ver- 
dict rendered, now intense chagrin. Lament and the Pro- 
fessor alone were silent, as if stunned by a heavy blow. 
Had they heard aright ? Did the faces of Mrs. Fielding 
and Margaret actually wear that look of supreme exultation, 
or was it imaginary ? No, a thousand times no ! And 
yet each knew in his heart that all was over. This, then, 
was human justice. 

Slowly, at last, Lamont rose, unable to remain longer in 
the presence of the victors, and laid a heavy hand on the 
Professor’s shoulder. 

“ Go to her,” he said briefly. “ She is alone, and has 
need of you.” 

“Ah, yes !” said the Professor, as if the consciousness 


380 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


of where he was, and what he was to do, had just dawned 
upon him. ‘‘Poor girl, — poor Cordelia. But you,” he 
added, after a pause, “are you not going to speak to 
her.?” 

“ No,” said Lamont, with an effort. “ There are reasons 
which prevent my speaking to her just now. At this mo- 
ment, perhaps, my sympathy might help to comfort her ; 
but I am not at liberty to bestow it. Do not ask me why. 
If it could be revealed, so true a friend as you are should 
be the first to know it. But I must carry my motives now, 
as always, securely locked in my heart. Pray tell her, 
however, that, in the hour of her trouble, she was not 
forgotten by me, and that, if any effort of mine could 
have insured her success, she would now be triumphant. 
Will you say also ” — He hesitated. 

“ How will she bear it.? Hpw will she bear it.?” said 
the Professor mechanically, hardly noting the other’s 
words. 

“ Can you ask .? ” replied Lamont. “ Has she ever given 
way under sorrow or disappointment .? She is not merce- 
nary. She does not care for the money. It was the sense 
of injustice that oppressed her, and she desired so ardently 
to be of service to the Church she loves. It is this which 
will affect her principally. The Superior too ” — 

“ It is the injustice which maddens me,” burst forth the 
Professor vehemently. “ I cannot speak of it calmly. My 
whole soul cries out against this outrage. I wish now I 
had not found these women. At this very moment they 
are glorying in their victory. How can such things be .? 
Will these two prosper forever .? Will the day never dawn 
in which retribution will overtake them, and lay them low 
in the dust .? ” 

“Ah ! ” said Lamont, “these matters are not often re- 
vealed to us. They may have suffered, — perhaps they 
suffer now more than we can imagine. At all events, 


THE VERDICT. 


381 


they cannot remain unpunished. Nature is a lavish mother, 
but her demands are inexorable. Believe me, the conse- 
quences of their crime will fall sooner or later upon these 
women. But why trouble ourselves about it } It is with 
the present and Cordelia that we have to deal. The tor- 
ture of her enemies can avail her nothing. She is not of 
those who take pleasure in the just misfortune of people 
who have wronged them. She is above that.” 

The Professor did not reply, and Lament continued 
gently. I must not detain you longer,” he said. “ She 
is waiting for you. Tell her, in addition to the message I 
have already given you, that I think of leaving New York 
soon. I can no longer work here, for a feeling of unrest 
troubles me constantly ; and it will be better in many ways 
for me to go elsewhere.” He ceased speaking; and the 
Professor, moved by a sudden impulse, clasped his hand in 
a friendly grasp. 

‘‘I think I understand,” he said; ‘‘and, if I mistake not, 
you, too, are deserving of sympathy. But as you have been 
heretofore, so you will be always, upright and honest.” 

“Thank you,” said the other simply. “ Pray tell her, — 
but never mind : you will do all that is right, I know. Good- 
by. Keep her with you as long as you can.” 

He wrung his companion’s hand, and turned away ; while 
a sudden dimness came into the Professor’s eyes as he 
saw him disappear in the crowd. The indefinable sense 
of melancholy underlying Lament’s words affected him 
profoundly, and made the look of composure with which 
he approached Cordelia seem forced and unnatural. 

The court-room was by this time almost entirely de- 
serted ; for the people had gradually been pouring from it 
in masses, talking in loud voices now of the trial and the 
verdict. Cordelia, leaning on the Professor’s arm, saw 
Lamont’s tall form as he passed through the door and into 
the street, where the sunlight fell in oblique rays. 


382 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


It is all over,” she said ; ‘*and I am glad. I suspected 
the end long ago, and was prepared for it.” 

But, in spite of the- self-control she exercised, hot tears 
rose to her eyes ; and she hastily drew her veil across her 
face, that the Professor should not see her weakness. His 
penetration, however, was greater than she thought. 

She weeps, poor girl,” said the Professor to himself, 
with a sigh. “ But it is not the verdict that brings the 
tears.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


DISAGREEABLE TRUTHS. 

“ The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” 

The intense joy which Mrs. Fielding and Margaret ex- 
perienced when the verdict was pronounced in their favor 
was not greater, by any means, than that which filled the 
heart of the Superior. Long and fervently did she thank 
God that at last the money for which the Church had so 
patiently waited was to be confided to her keeping, and the 
thought of the personal benefit she was to derive there- 
from increased her enthusiasm. Before retiring on the 
night following the end of the trial, she had fully decided 
what her plans should be. Cordelia, it is true, had not 
treated her well in keeping the fact of the recovery of her 
aunt and the fortune a secret ; but this should be forgotten 
now in consideration of the magnificent results which 
finally were forthcoming. It was perfectly plain to the 
Superior, that all thought of the new order and the poverty 
of the convent had faded completely from Cordelia’s mind. 
This was unfortunate : but she did not doubt that a few 
earnest entreaties, and a little zealous enterprise, would suc- 
ceed in recalling the lost sheep again to the fold ; and the 
Superior was not the one to shrink from the undertaking, 
unpleasant though it might be. Many and sincere were 
her self-gratulations upon the victory she had gained for 
her friends. Never before had the intentions of Providence 

383 


384 A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 

working through humanity been so apparent to her ; and, 
with a full sense of the important service she had rendered 
to the Deity, she surveyed herself from afar, as it were, and 
marvelled at her own excellence. 

No time was to be lost, she felt, in putting her projects 
into execution ; so, a couple of days after the close of the 
trial, she set out for Silverbridge ; her hard face wearing 
an unusually calm expression, the outcome, possibly, of 
her firm consciousness of bringing the responsibility that 
rested upon her to a fitting termination. 

Half way up the broad walk leading to Mrs. Fielding’s 
house she encountered Margaret, who carried a large 
hat in one hand, and a bunch of freshly gathered roses in 
the other. Miss Aldergrove’s countenance showed some 
surprise as she recognized her visitor; but she advanced 
politely to meet the Superior, who came forward with out- 
stretched hands. 

“ My dear child,” she said, in a low tone full of feeling, 
I have had no opportunity until now to offer my con- 
gratulations. We have been more fortunate than I could 
have supposed. But God is ever watchful, and looks well 
after the Interests of those who serve him faithfully. It 
was I, Cordelia, whom he chose to employ in this instance 
as a means of bringing to pass what had previously been 
ordained; and I felt the greatness of the task imposed 
upon me, together with the influence of His blessed will. 
Had I been at the uttermost end of the globe, gladly would 
I have come to serve you. Ever since we parted, my one 
desire has been to find you, and to aid you, if possible, in 
your noble undertaking. But,” continued the Superior, 
changing her tone from intense pathos to something akin 
to irritability, “ I must say, I never conceived your keeping 
the fact of your success hidden from me. You may recol- 
lect, that one day, soon after you heard of the money, we 
had a long conversation relative to your plans ; and then 


DISAGREEABLE TRUTHS. 


385 


you were very emphatic in regard to what you intended to 
do with your fortune. The girl, your cousin, whom I was 
induced by that false priest to believe was you, must 
have become acquainted with your intentions ; for, after 
she came to the convent, she, doubtless with the view of 
deceiving me, expressed similar purposes, and even pre- 
tended to be a member of our Holy Church. Was ever 
woman before guilty of such blasphemy ? The horrid im- 
postor and heretic ! But you, my dear child, have not 
been altogether blameless ; for instead of recalling the 
hopes formerly entertained, of helping our Holy Church, 
and the sentiments of duty which were once your whole 
life, you, have evidently forgotten that such things ever 
existed. Only now, when the envy of your cousin has 
almost succeeded in wresting from you all that you have 
so hardly earned, do you call upon me for assistance, — 
upon me whom you have so thanklessly overlooked, both 
as a friend and as a representative of the Church you once 
professed to love. Was this just, Cordelia.^ Is it what I 
ought to expect from you } ” 

The Superior’s tone had become tender again, and she 
sought to infuse a little gentleness into her glance. Mar- 
garet, who had listened quietly to her words without 
attempting any interruption, turned, and regarded her with 
a half-smile. “ What a wonderful memory you have, 
mother!” she said carelessly. Since I left Santa Fe, 
many things have occurred to drive from my mind my girl- 
ish hopes and dreams. With you, of course,, it is different. 
Living within those dismal walls, through which no sound 
from the outer world is allowed to penetrate, how can you 
do otherwise than brood over fancies which time has killed 
long ago ? With us each day creates ideas, permits them 
to exist for a few brief hours, and then buries them. Were 
it not so, we should be surrounded, and our growth checked, 
by pools of stagnant thought. In the world we live ; but 


386 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


you, who pass the greater part of your existence in a con- 
vent, appear, when you finally emerge from it, like a piece 
of moss-covered humanity overgrown with the weeds of 
a generation that is dead and gone.” She stopped and 
laughed. And then she resumed after a moment’s pause, 
while the Superior’s face assumed an expression of horror. 
My aunt’s marriage to a Protestant led me to study the 
subject. I found that I was a Roman Catholic only because 
I had been brought up in that faith. So soon as I began 
to reason on the matter, I found I had been believing in 
a mass of horrible superstitions ; so I became a Protestant, 
as also did my aunt. You see, then, how impossible it is 
for me to go back to the old way of thought, or to attempt 
to carry out the old ideas. My conscience revolts at the 
very mention of such a thing.” 

The Superior, whose face had not lost its horrified ex- 
pression, now drew her tall form up to its fullest extent. 
“You a Protestant ! ” she burst forth, her voice trembling 
with excitement and anger. “ A Hericourt a renegade to 
the faith of her ancestors ! It is impossible ! It is easier 
for me to believe you to be Margaret Aldergrove than a 
heretic ! My God, if I should have made a mistake ! if you 
should, after all, be Margaret Aldergrove the impostor ! ” 
She got no farther, but stood wringing her hands convul- 
sively ; while her long black gown, following the motion 
of her body, twisted itself like a snake about her feet. 

“You know, mother,” Margaret continued in a low tone, 
not apparently noticing the Superior’s language, “that 
you have no claim upon me whatever. I believe I did 
intend at one time to found an order with the money I 
'had inherited ; but, if so, the will has long ago disappeared. 
My aunt never meant to part with her share in so absurd 
a manner, I can assure you ; and I can only attribute my 
own rash promises to youth and inexperience. I have 
other uses for my wealth than you suppose.” 


DISAGREEABLE TRUTHS. 387 

The Superior’s rage resolved itself in a burst of pas- 
sionate tears. 

“Oh!” she cried, “can you have forgotten so utterly, 
Cordelia } Do you no longer remember the pleasure, the 
impatience, with which you looked forward to helping the 
Church } How often have we talked it over, with hearts 
fully alive to the blessed privilege we were thus permitted 
to enjoy! What has changed you Is your faith really 
a thing of the past ? Is it possible you have become a 
heretic } ” 

She sank down upon a garden-seat near by, and sobbed 
in an agony of despair and mortification. “ Did you not 
come to me in all your troubles,” she resumed in broken 
tones, “during the time you lived in Santa Fe Did 
I not, when you were almost friendless, give you the as- 
sistance you needed, coming thousands of miles to your 
aid .? ” 

“If you wish me to feel a sense of obligation which 
money can discharge,” said Margaret haughtily,. “ my 
purse is at your service for any amount which you may 
consider a fitting equivalent for your care and protection. 
But more than this I will not do. You cannot surely 
demand money of me for telling the truth. How much 
shall it be, mother ? At how high a figure do you value 
your interest and trouble ” She looked defiantly at the 
Superior, who, stung by the girl’s insulting words, sprang 
to her feet. 

“ Keep your money ! I will not touch it ! ” she cried, 
her anger returning tenfold, and a sense of outraged pride 
overmastering her. “The Church is no beggar, Cordelia 
Hericourt ; and it scorns both you and your wealth. Poor 
we are, and poor we can remain. But, in thus offending 
me, you are more than discourteous to the faith you pre- 
tended to hold in honor. Your religion, like other things, 
is dead.” Her tall figure swayed back and forth with the 


388 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


excess of her emotion ; and her eyes rested piercingly upon 
Margaret, who was calm and collected. 

“ I will not prolong the discussion,” she said, turning 
aside. “ I have told you what I am willing to do ; and you 
can accept or refuse the proposition, as you see fit,” 

The Superior, whose gaze had been attentively fixed 
upon Margaret, started suddenly back with a cry of horror. 

‘‘Ah!” she said hoarsely. “Now — now I see it all. 
You are not Cordelia Hericourt. You are Margaret 
Aldergrove — a heretic — an impostor I Oh I what have 
I done "i What have I done } ” She appeared beside her- 
self with rage and disappointment. “Can it be possible,” 
she continued, approaching Margaret, and seizing her by 
the wrist, — “can it be possible that I have really upheld 
Margaret Aldergrove instead of Cordelia Hericourt ? 
Answer me at once, or I will go and denounce you.” Her 
breath came thick and fast, while her fingers tightened 
upon Margaret’s wrist until the girl winced with pain. 

“ Let me go ! What right have you to touch me } ” 
exclaimed Margaret, her face turning pale with anger. 
“ Why do you ask me now who I am } You know me well 
enough. Would you have given your evidence in my 
favor if you had not been sure of my identity } I shall 
not stoop to declare to you that I am Cordelia Hericourt. 
You ought to know my name. But listen to me. Mother 
Teresa. We have prolonged this conversation quite long 
enough ; and I, for one, am tired of it. I have no desire 
to attract the attention of the servants by a theatrical 
scene here in the garden. So, if you will excuse me, I will 
return to the house*. Good-morning.” 

She bowed with a haughty grace, that struck the Supe- 
rior as might a swift, cold blast sweeping across the lawn. 
Then she turned away, and in another instant had disap- 
peared within the doorway. 

Mother Teresa stood motionless, with heaving chest, 


DISAGREEABLE TRUTHS, 


389 


and wide-opened, horror-stricken eyes. For the moment 
she doubted whether she lived, or floated, like a restless 
phantom, in a region peopled with terrible dreams. 
Through her heated brain rang tones that shouted in a 
wild, triumphant chorus, and made the singing of the 
birds close at hand seem like a faint echo in the distance. 

Not Cordelia Hericourt ! not Cordelia ! ” screamed the 
voices, in wild, discordant tones. And then, among them, 
a mocking laugh rose, and vibrated through the air with 
shrill, unmelodious clamor. The Superior closed her eyes, 
and thought to see, afar off, the convent-walls, outlined 
against the blue New-Mexican sky, crumble suddenly 
away with a deafening crash, and, from the dusty ruins, 
the pale spirit of the real Cordelia rise to confront her 
sorrowfully. Oh ! whither had flown the wisdom and 
penetration of former years ? Where was the divine pro- 
tection hitherto so marked.^ Was the justice of Heaven 
like a mist that a single shaft of light could dispel, and 
scatter abroad in watery particles ? Not Cordelia Heri- 
court ! And she, the Superior, had striven her utmost to 
crush the wronged, and elevate the vicious, — she, whose 
whole life had been intended as a sacrifice to virtue, and 
devoted to the highest human motives. It was pitiful, 
indeed, this sharp awakening from unconscious slumber. 
She wondered that the sun could shine calmly upon the 
face of so terrible a calamity. She marvelled that she 
could look about her, and see a smiling, golden universe 
instead of avoid whose eternal night no resplendent gleam 
could illumine. 

The Superior gazed mechanically at the objects which 
surrounded her, and then placed her trembling hands be- 
fore her eyes. The tears had already dried upon her 
white cheeks ; and in the look of disappointment and con- 
fusion on her face, was something terribly pathetic. The 
harshness of her features, the inflexible will which had 


390 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


shone through all her varying shades of expression, and 
the rigid lines formed by her many passionate moments, 
had become softened and relaxed as if by magic. This 
woman, who now stood and faced a reality more frightful 
than any she had ever known, was no longer the Superior 
of old, whose womanly personality had been hidden from 
sight by a cold and severe discipline. Her whole nature 
had suddenly become revolutionized, as it were, and en- 
dowed with new thoughts, sentiments, and capacity. A 
short time ago childhood had seemed very remote ; but 
now it came back to her, transformed all at once into a 
mild beauty, and, clinging to her skirts, looked up at her 
with blue, expectant eyes dimmed with tears. Something 
like a sob rose to the Superior’s throat, and she felt her 
limbs give way with the excess of her emotion. Her 
clasped hands fell nerveless to her side ; and, sinking once 
more upon the garden-seat, she abandoned herself to such 
weeping as she had not known for many a year. 

It is thus that our helplessness often overcomes us, and 
teaches us by a bitter experience how insignificant a thing 
is the strongest human nature. In vain do we delude 
ourselves into confidence in our own force. Our giant 
achievements are overthrown by the voice of a child ; our 
enthusiasm turned aside with the advent of another day ; 
our capabilities shattered by an unforeseen circumstance. 
Then it is that we are made conscious of our weakness, 
and perhaps no pain is more bitter than this knowledge. 

It was all very terrible to the Superior. She had lived 
so long by her own strength, that it was almost more than 
she could bear now to see it fade away as naught. And 
yet, of how great a value was this experience in teaching 
her the smallness of self, — that wonderful lesson which, 
sooner or later, we are all called upon to learn ! 

By and by her grief expended itself ; and, with a long- 
drawn sigh, she rose, gathering up the dusty folds of her 


DISAGREEABLE TRUTHS. 


391 


black gown, and advanced toward the high iron gate, which 
opened upon the road. But, at its entrance, she stopped 
abruptly, and fell back with a little cry ; for another figure, 
strikingly like Margaret’s, was there, and on the point of 
coming forward. Like Margaret’s indeed ! and yet the 
Superior, whose mind was still illumined by the glow 
which remained from her recent interview, felt some irre- 
sistible force thrill her with a vague hope and sorrow com- 
bined. Cordelia, with her hand upon the gate, started 
at the sight of the Superior, whose eyes, inflamed with 
weeping, gazed at her imploringly. Something in the 
glance moved the girl with a keen pity. She approached 
the trembling form with both hands outstretched ; and, 
with a sob, the Superior clung to them, weeping now from 
very tenderness. 

“Cordelia — Cordelia — forgive,” she said brokenly, her 
tears falling upon the girl’s hands. 

“You know me now, mother,” said Cordelia sadly, — 
“now, when it is too late.” 

“ I have been both blind and wicked. I have wrought 
irreparable injury upon you,” sobbed the Superior. “Can 
you forgive me, Cordelia, — unworthy servant that I am, 
blinded by my own selfishness ^ ” 

“ Nay, mother,” said Cordelia gently, surprised at this 
tone, and the Superior’s changed manner. “You have 
done me no wrong intentionally. In identifying Marga- 
ret as me, you meant to do me no injury ; for you thought 
you spoke the truth. Besides ” — 

“ Yes,” said the Superior, raising her head, and meeting 
Cordelia’s eyes, “ I did think I spoke the truth ; but I was 
guided more by the expectation of the reward to come, 
than by any strict sense of justice. I thought of the 
money rather than of you, Cordelia. I believed without 
inquiry, or examination, what those wicked women told 
me. But I will undo the wrong. I will go at once to the 


392 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


judge, and tell him how grievously I have been mistaken. 
I will not spare myself, and all will yet be right.” 

“No, no, mother: you must not do that,” interposed 
Cordelia. “ I have fought my earthly battle, and have lost ; 
and nothing would tempt me to renew the contest. Let 
them keep the money and the name, which the law has 
decided is theirs. It will be good discipline for me to 
think it over from time to time. It will help to show me 
the difference between the justice of man and that of God. 
The matter is in His hands, and He will do what seems 
'good in His sight.” 

“Ah, Cordelia!” said the Superior, “for me, at least, 
there has been a lesson to learn ; and to-day the first page 
has been engraved upon my memory. And you, whose 
noble nature I am yet hardly fitted to comprehend, can 
teach me still more. The money we shall always look 
back upon with regret ; but, since it is removed irrevocably 
from us, let us try to give the Church something that 
will take its place. The order, indeed, cannot be insti- 
tuted ; nor can the convent be -materially benefited. But 
we can work in some other way, surely. Come with me 
to Santa Fe, Cordelia, and let us begin to instruct the 
poor girls whom you once hoped to educate in a different 
manner. If we are unable to accomplish all that we de- 
sire, we can, nevertheless, do much.” 

“That is said generously, mother,” replied Cordelia; 
“and I am glad to hear you make this proposition, for I 
decided long ago to return to Santa Fe in case I lost this 
suit against my cousins. I long for the old life, which, in 
some respects, will be a new one. But,” she added, after 
a pause, “ we can speak of this at some other time. Tell 
me what you are doing here in Mrs. Fielding’s garden. 
Have you seen Margaret ? ” 

“ I thought to see you, Cordelia ; but not many words 
had passed between your cousin and me before I discov- 


DISAGREEABLE TRUTHS. 


393 


ered my mistake. I have done you a great injustice,” said 
the Superior mournfully. “ I fancied you had purposely 
withheld the money from the Church. Such baseness as 
those women have been guilty of never entered my mind. 
Margaret was right, perhaps, when she said I lived in a 
generation long ago dead and buried. My worldly knowl- 
edge, I see, is not great.” 

“You were not to blame, mother, believe me,” said Cor- 
delia. “But I must leave you now, for I have come on an 
important errand. Let me, however, see you to-morrow 
if possible.” 

“ Why have you come here ? ” asked the Superior. “ Of 
what use will it be to speak to your cousins Can it give 
you back that which is lost } ” 

“No, that it cannot do. But I must speak, neverthe- 
less, to Margaret,” said Cordelia firmly. “ I came away 
this morning without the Professor’s knowledge, but I 
desire only to say a few words to my cousin.” 

“ Oh ! ” cried the Superior, with a sudden wail of grief, 
that recalled to Cordelia’s mind another period of her life, 
“to think, that, having striven so long to help you to 
secure this fortune, I should finally be the means of your 
losing it. How can I atone to you for this ? How can I 
ever cease to upbraid myself.?” 

“ You must not think of it in that way, mother. I know 
that you intended no wrong to me ; and perhaps it is as 
well, after all, that things have ended in this manner. I 
have not had a happy life. One more disappointment, 
what is it.?” 

She spoke a little bitterly, and the Superior looked at 
her inquiringly. 

“You will tell me all, will you not, Cordelia.?” she 
asked softly. 

“Yes, all, mother. But let me go now, for I do not 
wish them to see us talking here.” 


394 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


The two women embraced each other silently ; and 
presently the Superior passed through the iron gate into 
the road, while Cordelia walked toward the house. The 
Superior stood watching her until she had been admitted ; 
and, as the heavy doors opened and closed again upon the 
girl’s erect form. Mother Teresa’s sad eyes filled once more 
with tears. 


CHAPTER XL. 


MARGARET SEES GHOSTS. 

“ ‘ Thy lot, or portion of life,’ said the Caliph Ali, ‘is seeking after thee: therefore 
be at rest from seeking after it.’ ” 

Margaret, when she had parted from the Superior in 
the garden, entered the large drawing-room, and began, 
with steady hands, to arrange the roses in a vase of Japanese 
porcelain. But, though her slender white fingers did not 
tremble, there was a strange sensation in her heart ; and 
her cheeks were a shade paler than when she had first 
gone forth from the house that morning. With her recent 
victory had come marvellous composure and strength. The 
long years of striving, of forced serenity, of uncertainty 
and fear, now seemed to her, in the presence of her tri- 
umph, almost as naught. She even smiled on looking back 
upon the last significant period of her life. Yet the smile 
contained some bitterness and a little uneasiness, not the 
result of any feeling of insecurity in regard to her posi- 
tion, real or fancied, but owing to a shadow of fear which 
had been ever present since Castaly and the Professor had 
boldly denounced her. Day and night, whether sleeping 
or waking, Cordelia seemed to stand before her; and in 
the sad, plaintive eyes of her cousin, Margaret thought to 
see a restless spirit which refused to slumber. How long, 
she wondered, would this ghost of a buried crime haunt 
her ? Would her conscience never cease to cry out in 

395 


396 A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 

fiery anguish, and would her existence be forever marred 
by the absence of all human sympathy ? Even now, as 
she arranged the roses in her drawing-room, the Superior’s 
words of sorrow and anger yet rang in her ears, mingled 
with Cordelia’s voice, — a harsh, relentless tone, it is true, 
but imbued as well with indefinable compassion. Bold as 
Margaret was, she shrank from the sound and the stern 
vision which grew momentarily more distinct and awful. 
She closed her eyes, letting the spray of crimson blossoms 
she held in her hand fall to the floor. Quaint shadows 
danced merrily over the polished parquet, cast there by 
the swaying branches of the trees without ; and the sun 
touched with his golden fingers every object within his 
reach. At that very moment he was flinging fanciful 
specks of radiance on the Superior’s black robe, which 
wound in snake-like folds about her feet as she stood 
motionless and dumb upon the garden-path. But Mar- 
garet’s mind was filled now with something else. Her 
thoughts had travelled swiftly to by-gone years. She was 
wondering what her life would have been had she never 
met her cousins, the Hericourts. Would the longing for 
wealth, together with an intense worldly ambition, have 
possessed her then, so that her whole nature was but a 
barren soil with a single oasis whereon flourished rank and 
poisonous weeds that choked her very life Her entire 
personality had been contained in one intense longing, 
and now that longing was satisfied. But it was the old 
story of the child chasing the butterfly across a summer 
field. 

Are needs aught but fancies } What can we require, 
since we are here but for a few short years, spent happily 
only in ignorance ? That which yesterday was a necessity 
becomes to-day something to be cast aside as worthless. 
And in this way we live, grasping now, that we may fling 
away to-morrow. Yet, strange delusion, we speak of 
needs ! 


MARGARET SEES GHOSTS. 397 

Thus Margaret, sitting silent and alone by the drawing- 
room window, thought of the past, and wondered for what 
she could next strive. Wealth she had in plenty : her 
triumph over her cousin had been complete, and the 
recent deception practised upon the Superior left nothing 
to be desired. What would be her next step Could she 
seek friendship or sympathy } The mere idea caused her 
to smile, for she knew such things as these had no place 
in her existence. Alone she had been hitherto, and alone 
she would remain forever. And yet, her heart cried out 
in fear and trembling at being forced to meet the vision 
that was always before it, — the vision of Cordelia Heri- 
court. It was not remorse that Margaret felt. She re- 
gretted nothing that she had done ; but a nameless terror 
haunted her, and was with her always, like a double shadow. 

Did the Superior really suspect the fraud which had 
been practised upon her, or had she uttered words born 
only of the anger she felt at losing the money Would 
she really retract her evidence } No, that was impossible. 
To do so would cause a scandal, and no good Catholic ever 
does that. She might threaten in private, but she would 
never publicly admit that she had made a mistake. Still, 
she felt afraid. What if old Miss Hericourt should come 
back } There was scarcely a possibility of that. Still, it 
was possible ; and, at one time during the trial, she dared 
not raise her eyes, fearful that they might rest upon the 
form of the long-absent woman stalking up to the witness- 
stand. The chances were a thousand to one that she was 
dead. 

In the midst of her meditations the door was gently 
opened, and Mrs. Fielding entered. She had come to 
speak of the future ;_and Margaret was not sorry to have 
her revery broken in upon by her mother, for her thoughts 
were not pleasant companions. She was ready, in fact, 
to enter into any discussion that would remove that sad, 


398 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


implacable image from her mind ; so now she rose, and 
received her mother with an inquiring glance. 

“ I saw you talking in the garden with Mother Teresa,” 
said Mrs. Fielding listlessly. “What did she want.^” 

“ Want ! why, money, of course,” said Margaret calmly. 

“You mean, she desired payment for her services.?” 

“ No, not exactly. Have you forgotten that Cordelia 
promised that man Lament to found an order with her 
fortune .? It seems, too, that she intended to endow the 
convent. Mother Teresa has a good memory, and came 
to remind me of all this.” 

“But you did not, surely,” — began Mrs. Fielding in 
some agitation. 

“No, no,” said Margaret, smiling at her mothers alarm. 
“ I told the good woman plainly that my intentions, so far 
as slie and the Church were concerned, were a thing of the 
past. She wept, and called me all manner of names ; but 
I was firm. I never realized before how intensely mer- 
cenary Christianity can be.” 

“It is perfectly ridiculous, — her claim, I mean,” said 
Mrs. Fielding grimly. “ It is astonishing, that, when one 
has a little money, how many there are to spring forth to 
grasp it if possible. Money, my dear Margaret, that has 
been acquired by labor, and prized principally on this 
account, is not to be given into the hands of dissolute 
priests and nuns, whose habits are really a reproach to 
their religion. The Superior, I admit, has been of service 
to us, and should be paid for her trouble, I suppose ; but 
that is quite another matter.” 

“I offered to reward her,” said Margaret; “but she 
seemed to consider my words an insult. I have seldom 
seen such fury as hers.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Mrs. Fielding coldly. “ I cannot say 
that I am surprised to hear this ; nor would it astonish 
me were she to come back, and gladly accept any thing we 


MARGARET SEES GHOSTS. 


399 


might choose to give her. We are not rid of her yet, I am 
sure.” 

“ I care very little,” replied Margaret. So far as I am 
concerned, she may come as often as she pleases. But I 
do not think we shall ever see her again.” She stopped, 
and glanced cautiously about the room. “The fact is,” 
she continued finally, in a lower tone, “ Mother Teresa re- 
cognized me, or pretended, in her rage, to do so. I feared 
a terrible scene, and hastened into the house. It has 
given me quite a shock. Besides ” — 

“ Besides what, Margaret ” 

“You know,” said Margaret, in a whisper, she is 
always here, — always before me with her gray, reproach- 
ful eyes looking into mine. Do you, too, see her, mother ” 

“ No,” said Mrs. Fielding, with some asperity. “ I 
have, thank God ! none of the absurd fancies which have 
of late possessed you.” 

“ I cannot help it,” replied Margaret mechanically. “ Do 
you think it gives me pleasure to see her form start forth 
from every nook and corner, and her sad white face follow 
me day and night ? Sometimes I am inclined to fall upon 
my knees, and beg mercy of this malevolent spirit.” Her 
voice trembled as she spoke, and she glanced from side to 
side uneasily. 

“What absurdity!” said Mrs. Fielding. “Why do you 
not try to banish it forever, instead of brooding over it } 
For my part, I have other things than this upon my mind. 
I wish, to begin with, to talk to you about Castaly and 
Richard. You can understand, that, after the part played 
by the girl in the trial, my house is no longer a welcome 
or fitting abode for her. She leaves it to-day for boarding- 
school, by her own request and my ready consent. Rich- 
ard likewise shall go from home. I cannot endure the 
boy. His presence has become intolerable.” 

“ It will be a great relief to have them away from here,” 


400 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


said Margaret, recovering herself somewhat. I, too, 
have always disliked them ; and my aversion to Castaly in 
particular increases daily. She is more terrible to me, I 
think, than Cordelia.” 

Mrs. Fielding nodded abstractedly, and drew near to the 
window, which looked out upon the broad garden-path. 

“ I see a figure dressed in black passing through the 
gate into the road,” she said. “ Can it be Mother Teresa.? 
Why should she have staid here so long, I wonder.” 

“ She was doubtless reflecting upon her position,” said 
Margaret carelessly. “ But are you sure it was she .? ” 

“It must have been she,” said Mrs. Fielding. “No one 
else could have gone out. And some one must have en- 
tered the place also; for I hear a step on the veranda, — 
a woman’s step.” 

Margaret started up, her face growing paler. 

“A woman’s step!” she repeated. “Do you think — 
could it be — Cordelia .? ” A great change had come over 
her suddenly ; and then, as she heard the heavy doors 
without open and close again, she trembled violently, and 
approached Mrs. Fielding, who seized her hand. 

“ Margaret, compose yourself, I entreat you,” whispered 
the older woman. “ If it should be Cordelia, she must find 
us firm, and prepared to meet her unflinchingly.” 

But, even as she spoke, her own features underwent a 
marked alteration, and her tone was unsteady. Margaret 
strove violently to command herself, and turned boldly to 
face the door, which, at that very instant, opened to admit 
Cordelia. 

In the mean while the sky had become overcast by dark, 
threatening clouds ; and the dull roll of thunder was heard 
in the distance. The trees swayed with a swift, rhythmical 
motion, as angry gusts of wind swept the lawn ; and the 
lake, lying beyond Castaly’s rose-covered pavilion, upon’ 
whose liquid sapphire, a moment before, warm sunbeams 


MARGARET SEES GHOSTS. 


401 


had Sparkled and danced, was now a sombre expanse, its 
uprising ripples reflecting the melancholy color of the sky. 
Nature had harmonized itself seemingly with the Supe- 
rior’s wild grief, and, apprehending the scene which was to 
follow, moaned and wailed in anger and despair. 

Cordelia closed the door gently, and then advanced until 
she stood within a few feet of the two women, who clung 
to each other’s hands in silence and consternation. 

Upon her highly strung senses the subdued light of the 
apartment, and the sound of the rising storm, fell like a 
calm influence, unrecognized though keenly felt. Now, 
indeed, could striking differences be detected between the 
two girls, as they stood thus face to face. The pallor of 
the one, her half-closed, yet defiant eyes, her compressed 
and resolute lips, were in strong contrast to the other’s 
features, overshadowed as they were by hopeless weari- 
ness. 

It was Margaret who first spoke. 

“ What do you want here ” she demanded haughtily, 
notwithstanding her fear. “ Have you come to claim that 
which is now ours forever ? ” 

Her chest heaved with agitation, but her head was 
thrown proudly back. 

“No,” said Cordelia sadly. “That would be useless, I 
fear, Margaret. Your strength has conquered my weak- 
ness, and so I shall let the matter rest as it is. I ho 
longer claim that which is mine, and which you have stolen 
from me : nor will I reproach you ; for I know how little 
impression my anger would make upon you, and of what 
slight avail it would be to me. But I look at you both in 
wonder. You call yourself human, — and I have never 
done you wrong. Why, then, have you been so cruel, so 
merciless, so unsparing } For what reason have you 
wrecked my life, and committed another crime, which I 
shudder even to name ^ Have I ever harmed you 1 ” 


402 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


A dull red color rose to Margaret’s cheeks, and she 
dropped her head. 

“ You did harm us,” she said. You were rich, and had 
never known want. We were poor, and likely to remain 
so always. It maddened me.” 

“For you, Cordelia, for you personally,” said Mrs. 
Fielding, “ we had no great ill-feeling. Could the money 
have been ours without the necessity of doing you an 
injury, God knows we should have been spared many 
terrible hours.” 

“I believe you,” said Cordelia coldly; “and I marvel 
the more at your endurance, your perseverance. You 
have deprived me of all that was to compose my life’s 
happiness. I do not speak merely of the money, but of 
other things which you will never know. You have been 
blind to my suffering, and deaf to the voice of justice. 
You have left no stone unturned that you might rejoice 
over my helplessness. I would know what you are, for 
women you cannot be.” 

There was a subdued passion in her tone, and she drew 
a step nearer her cousins. 

“ I have said it would be useless to reproach you,” she 
continued more calmly. “And, indeed, my sorrow, and 
the bitter experience you have forced upon me, may some 
day give me cause to thank you as being the forerunners 
of a better life than the one I have led. But at this mo- 
ment I am perplexed and uncertain. I have questions to 
put which my lips hardly know how to frame. Why have 
you been so heartless } If I did hot 'always treat you with 
affection, I gave you honesty and hospitality. And, in 
order to insure your own worldly prosperity, you have 
wrought misery upon me, and degraded yourselves to the 
lowest possible level. Had you asked me for money, would 
I have refused it, do you think .? Had you boldly taken 
it, I might, perhaps, have pardoned the act, knowing well 


MARGARET SEES GHOSTS. 


403 


the deeds which poverty sometimes occasions. But that 
you should personate me, rob me by stealth, live a life of 
deception, and even commit murder” — 

“ Murder ! No, no ! ” exclaimed Margaret, white with 
terror. “There was never a thought of murder in our 
hearts.” Her forced composure gave way all at once, and 
she sank on her knees before her cousin. 

“O Cordelia, if you only knew how much we have en- 
dured ! ” she cried in broken accents. “ If I have been 
treacherous and criminal to you, all that I have gained 
has been most dearly bought. My whole life is a torment 
to me; for your reproaches sound continually in my ears, 
and I see your face day and night. There is no rest for 
me, — none — none. But yet, I cannot give back that 
which is yours. I cannot return your money. It is the 
one thing that binds me to existence. But if you are in 
want, — if you have no means ” — 

“ Yes,” interrupted Mrs. Fielding faintly. “If you will 
leave us, Cordelia, if you will only spare us the con- 
sciousness of your presence, we will gladly give you any 
sum you may desire. Indeed,” she added doubtfully, “we 
might even, under certain conditions, be willing to return 
you the whole amount of your inheritance. We have a 
great deal more than that now.” 

“ What ! ” cried Cordelia, her anger bursting suddenly 
forth into an almost ungovernable fury. “Will you, in 
addition to all you have already done, insult me now with 
your charity, and speak of ‘conditions’ for giving me 
my own, — charity paid for with my own money which 
you have stolen from me ^ ” Her eyes flashed with ex- 
citement, and she trembled from head to foot. 

“Get up,” she said contemptuously to Margaret, “get 
up, and be thankful that I have treated you so leniently. 
You offer me charity with my own money. This is indeed 
the acme of assurance. But you are glad, I can see, that 


404 A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 

I refuse your generosity, Margaret. It would doubtless 
cost you a severe struggle to part with even a small part 
of your ill-gotten gains. Oh ! ” she cried with sudden 
vehemence, “each day that I have lived has brought to 
me the knowledge of some fresh human weakness or de- 
pravity. But my contempt and my disgust have never 
been so strong as they are now. You would buy my 
silence. You would seek, by giving me a few paltry dol- 
lars, to lift from your consciences the load of crime which 
is slowly crushing them. But not if you gave back every 
penny that is mine, could you find the rest you crave. 
More than this is required to tranquillize your minds, and 
free them from self-reproach. No, no; keep my money 
by all means. But, believe me, I would not exchange it 
for your inhumanity.” 

Margaret had risen to her feet, pale and awe-stricken, 
and stood listening to her cousin’s fierce anger with some 
of her old defiance. 

“Then, why are you here, since you desire nothing from 
us } ” she asked with difficulty. “ It is enough for us to 
see you always in imagination. Spare us your actual 
presence, I beg of you.” 

As she spoke, a peal of thunder crashed without, and 
the storm burst in all its fury. The rain, falling in tor- 
rents, was tossed by the riotous wind into glittering spray, 
some of which struck the window-panes, and trickled 
down therefrom in bright, fantastic curves. The shrubs 
and trees swayed in the fitful gusts ; and from the droop- 
ing willows, whose branches dipped into the lake, a sighing 
cadence seemed to emanate. 

The noise of the tempest increased Margaret’s nervous- 
ness, and Mrs. Fielding shivered in nameless terror. 

“We never meant to harm you,” she murmured almost 
inaudibly. “It was the money — only the money.” 

“And my aunt, what of her.?” demanded Cordelia, 


MARGARET SEES GHOSTS. 


405 


drawing herself up with a gesture of supreme contempt. 
“ Have you ever thought of her, abandoned and helpless 
upon the plains } Can any amount of money bring to 
you oblivion of this crime } Can it cease to haunt you so 
long as you are permitted to live You are yet young, 
Margaret. Many years, doubtless, are before you. You 
have every material source of happiness. But who would 
change places with you ? No punishment I could inflict 
would equal in severity the inevitable punishment in store 
for you, which has perhaps begun already.” 

Her voice was now melancholy rather than harsh, and 
the angry light had faded from her eyes. Her cousin’s 
position seemed to her so pitiable, that the sense of her 
own misfortune was for the moment forgotten. She 
glanced mechanically about the luxurious apartment, 
which even the storm raging without could hardly render 
less brilliant. Now and then a gleam of vivid lightning, 
flashing into the room, illuminated the pale, stately mar- 
bles, the painted porcelains, and the gorgeous Oriental 
stuffs with which the furniture was covered. The large 
crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling caught in its 
white, glittering pendants fiery colors of purple, orange, 
and green. But, in the centre of the floor, the rOse 
dropped by Margaret formed a crimson spot on the shin^ 
ing parquet, like the stain of blood. 

Margaret saw it, and shivered as if with cold. 

“ How long will you torture us with your presence ? ” 
she asked. “ Do you not see that we suffer terribly } ” 

‘‘You will be called upon to suffer still more, believe 
me,” said Cordelia wearily. “ I do not know why it is 
that I fail to upbraid and even curse you. For to wreck 
a life as you have wrecked mine is not an account to be 
settled lightly. And yet, I pity you. The lowest wretch 
in the streets of New York seems an enviable person in 
comparison with you. But I will leave you to your own 


4o6 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


consciences if they be not dead. I have no more to say. 
May God bring you tp see in its true light the evil you 
have done, and forgive you as freely as I do now ! ” 

“You may go,” cried Margaret, with a wail of anguish 
that caused a thrill to pass through Cordelia’s heart, — “you 
may go ; but no, no, you will never leave me. Though you 
are thousands of miles -away, I shall still see your face 
as I see it now, as I have seen it sleeping and waking for 
many months. Why do you not curse me.^ Why do you 
not call down the vengeance of Heaven upon me ? Then 
I would curse back and defy you, but your forgiveness 
maddens me.” 

“You are in God’s hands,” said Cordelia. She left the 
room, closing the door softly behind her ; while Margaret, 
covering her face with her hands, sank upon the floor; and 
Mrs. Aldergrove, apparently stupefied with terror, stood 
motionless as though turned to stone. 

As Cordelia stepped upon the veranda, she saw the rain 
was over, and that a delicate green haze tinged the atmos- 
phere, and fell on every object like a gossamer web. The 
foliage in the garden sank under its weight of crystal 
drops ; and some scarlet geraniums, torn from their stems 
by the impetuous blast, lay strewn upon the wet grass. 
Then, a moment later, the sun burst through the sky, scat- 
tering with his golden shafts the sad, cheerless clouds 
before him, until they vanished in pearly mist, leaving in 
their stead a vast expense of blue heaven flecked with 
white. 

Cordelia passed down the garden-path, and thought of 
the Superior, and then of Margaret. She had treated her 
cousins almost with kindness. But was it not better so ? 
Would hard words have made them as sensible of their 
dishonor as had her contempt and pity } Besides, the 
weariness of her life, her intense disappointment, had 
taken from her much strength, leaving her an unbounded 


MARGARET SEES GHOSTS. 


407 


capacity for endurance, and but little force to combat 
against misfortune. 

In the journey back to the Professor’s house, she re- 
called again the Superior’s words, and sighed. Would it 
not be advisable to return to Santa Fe as suggested, and 
begin life anew.? Wealth was lost: her position was 
always insecure, and love was a thing that could never be 
hers. A great restless longing rose in her heart. Where 
indeed could she find the rest she needed if not in that 
quaint New-Mexican city, and among the people whom it 
had been her one ambition to improve .? She could work 
there, in a limited way it is true, but none the less sin- 
cerely ; and she would find in her occupation a freedom 
from all painful association. Her mind, as she thought, 
was almost made up ; and she saw herself again in fancy, 
sitting in the rough adobe cathedral among the vague, 
flickering shadows, while old, familiar, and well-beloved 
tones fell upon her ear. It was Lament’s voice that she 
heard ; and yet she well knew, that, in going back to Santa 
Fe, she should never look upon his face again. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


DAYBREAK. 

“ Lo 1 with a little rod 
I did but touch the honey of romance, 

And must 1 lose a soul’s inheritance? ” 

Cordelia saw the Superior on the following day, and the 
two women talked together long and earnestly. Mother 
Teresa was very mild, very humble ; and her affection for 
Cordelia seemed genuine, touched, as it was, by a shade of 
remorse. It was impossible not to be sensible of the 
change that had taken place in the Superior, and it did 
much toward consoling Cordelia for all she had lost. To 
enter upon, her new work side by side with one whose 
rough-edged, unpolished character had been somewhat 
refined by disappointment, seemed to rob her future life 
of much anticipated hardship. 

They spoke freely of the past, of the convent, and the 
bishop, who still remained in Santa Fe, living in a cheer- 
less fashion among the people whom he had grown to love, 
notwithstanding their ignorance, superstition, and bru- 
tality. They talked also of the trial, the Aldergroves, and 
old Miss Hericourt, wondering what fate had overtaken 
this poor, weak woman, who had been so cruelly dealt 
with. But one subject remained sealed between them. 
Of Lament neither spoke. A dozen times had his name 
risen to Cordelia’s lips to resolve itself in unbroken si- 

40S 


DA YBREAIir. 


409 


lence. She hoped that Mother Teresa would mention 
him, but she did not. Perhaps the recollection of him 
whom she still regarded with horror and indignation .re- 
called other things which were no less disagreeable, and 
so she carefully avoided the subject. It was better, surely, 
to let this portion of Cordelia’s life remain as it was, — a 
sad memory, only to be called forth when some noble 
occupation, carried on unselfishly, could render it less 
painful than it was now. 

She spoke to the Professor and his wife, a day or two 
later, of the arrangements she had made. It was a hard 
task to do so, for she experienced a bitter pain at the 
thought of leaving these dear friends. Yet she told them 
calmly of her desire and intention to return to Santa Fe, 
and begin to live in a different and better way. For the 
first time in years she saw a moisture in the Professor’s 
eyes. 

They were sitting together in the drawing-room when 
she broke the truth to them. It was evening; and the 
curtains were drawn, for autumn was at hand with its 
chill nightfall. The pale glow from the silver lamp fell 
upon the dainty figure of little Elfrida, who, with a rose- 
colored ribbon in her hand, was singing softly to herself. 
She stopped abruptly when Cordelia made known her 
resolution to the older people, and approached her gover- 
ness with a quick, startled glance. 

‘‘You are going away?” she asked, in an awe-stricken 
tone. 

“I must, dear,” said Cordelia, who thought the child 
had been too absorbed in her own amusement to hear 
what had been said. “Shall you miss me, little Elfrida ? ” 

There were tears in her eyes as she put the question ; 
while Elfrida, uttering a cry of dismay, clasped her about 
the neck with childish passion. 

“No, no, — you must not — you shall not go,” she said. 


410 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


sobbing bitterly. Then she ran and buried her face in 
her mother’s lap. 

Mrs. Hoveden said nothing, but stroked the child’s 
golden curls soothingly. Her heart was too full for 
speech ; but the Professor turned to Cordelia, and said 
gravely, — 

‘'Are you sure, dear Miss Hericourt, that you have 
decided wisely.^ Have you reflected upon the cold se- 
verity of the life you contemplate.^ Remember, that, 
although the home you have had with us may not have 
possessed every requirement for happiness, it has at least 
given you some comforts which you cannot hope to enjoy 
in Santa Fe.” 

Cordelia flushed a little, for she fancied there was a ring 
of reproach in his voice. 

“You have both been the kindest and dearest of friends 
to me,” she said with emotion; “and I can never repay 
the debt of gratitude I owe you. But, after all that has 
happened, I feel unfitted to remain here. It is duty as 
well as inclination that calls me away. The world does 
not attract me, and my heart is buried in the longing to 
be of service to the Church and humanity.” 

• She spoke a little sadly : for, in looking at the Profess- 
or’s face, she saw lines there which a month ago had not 
existed ; and she knew they had been caused by his efforts 
to serve her. 

“Dear Mrs. Hoveden,” she said, “will you not say that 
I am right It breaks my heart to leave you, but I have 
no alternative.” 

“You must do as you think best, Cordelia,” replied 
Mrs. Hoveden. “ I cannot advise you in such a matter. 
But I am sure you will always act as your conscience dic- 
tates. Your life has not been happy, I know ; and you 
have endured much that would have crushed a less noble 
nature. If now, at last, you see a faint semblance of hap- 


DA YBREAK. 


41 1 

piness before you, do your utmost, by all means, to make 
it real. It would be selfish in us, under the circumstances, 
to bid you remain with us. You know, however, how 
much sorrow your loss will occasion us.” 

Tears glistened in her eyes, and her voice trembled. 
Cordelia was much moved. 

Were it not that I am obliged to go, nothing should 
make me leave you,” she said simply. 

Little Elfrida, sobbing in her mother’s lap, raised her 
head ; and her great eyes, like wet violets, looked at Cor- 
delia hesitatingly. 

I do not believe you will go. You must not go,” she 
said. 

The Professor motioned to Cordelia to humor the child, 
for he dreaded the effect of her governess’s departure 
upon Elfrida’s impressionable and excitable temperament. 

^*We shall see,” answered Cordelia, understanding the 
glance. “At all events, let us speak of it no more at 
present.” 

“You cannot go ! I know you will not go ! ” exclaimed 
the child. A moment later she had again taken up the 
scarf of soft rose-colored silk, and, holding it aloft, began 
to dance back and forth in the mellow lamplight. Corde- 
lia, as she gazed at the small, fantastic figure in its quaint 
dress, about which the ends of the ribbon fluttered in 
graceful curves, sighed deeply ; for she loved Elfrida. 
Then her glance wandered to the Professor, who had put 
his book aside, and sat lost in sad reflection. 

A melancholy day it was for them all when Cordelia 
and the Superior set out on their long and tedious jour- 
ney. It was November now ; and the trees bore the last 
of the autumn leaves, whose brilliant coloring had been 
dimmed by the blasts of approaching winter. It was not 
an agreeable season of the year in which to travel ; but 
Cordelia felt that she had delayed the execution of her 


412 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


plan too long already, and the Superior desired impa- 
tiently to return to the convent. 

All the way from New York to Independence, Cordelia 
saw nothing through her tear-dimmed eyes but the Pro- 
fessor’s gloomy countenance, and Mrs. Hoveden’s sorrow- 
ful, resigned expression. She had gone from the house 
without bidding Elfrida good-by, for they all feared the 
shock of losing her governess would seriously injure the 
child. And so, in Cordelia’s recollection of that bitter 
parting, little Elfrida had no place ; and she could recall 
her as she had seen her first and last, moving gracefully 
up and down the dimly lighted drawing-room, with the 
flickering firelight glittering red on the gold embroideries, 
and throwing grotesque shadows across the sombre walls. 

And there were other memories, of a joyless kind, which 
filled her thoughts, and made her almost unconscious of 
the varying scenes through which she passed. To fix her 
mind entirely upon the new life was difficult, while all 
through which she had lately gone was fresh in her recol- 
lection. The irrevocable loss of her. fortune, and her 
cousin’s bold triumph, were painful reflections ; but her 
love had been the greatest trial of all. Another nature, 
one less great than Cordelia’s, would have grown bitter 
under its hopelessness ; but in her it served to soften and 
elevate. Never had her desires of usefulness been so 
ardent as now. And this did not arise from the pique 
and wounded vanity which often drive mankind to seclu- 
sion and good works in a sort of angry desperation, but 
was owing solely to her innate nobility and superiority. 
It was not because she had lost Lamont that she resolved 
to devote herself hereafter to deeds of charity and benevo- 
lence, but because, in losing him, she had become aware 
of her capability and powers of endurance, which she 
longed to exercise in a fitting manner. 

I fear you have found me a sorry travelling compan- 


DA YBREAIC. 


413 


ion/* she said to the Superior as they approached Inde- 
pendence. '‘But you can understand the thoughts which 
fill my mind. It is not that I forget the new life, but 
that I recall involuntarily the old.” 

“Yes,** said Mother Teresa calmly. “But the knowl- 
edge that you will soon be one of us overshadows all else. 
I am very happy, Cordelia, — more so than I have been for 
many years ; for I now see clearly.” 

“You were always good, dear mother. And I know I 
caused you much pain once. It shall be very different 
now,” said Cordelia. 

The Superior glanced keenly at her. She was on the 
point of mentioning Lamont’s name, and asking Cordelia 
where he was and what he did ; but something in the girl’s 
face caused her to hesitate, and remain silent. 

A little later they took the stage-coach for Santa Fe, 
and Cordelia smiled as the rough dialect of the driver and 
his assistant fell again upon her ears. 

“Surely you are Taylor, — Bill Taylor,” she said, ad- 
dressing the former. “ Do you remember me .?” 

“Why, you’re Major Hericourt’s daughter, or else 
t’other one, his niece,” said Taylor, his face beaming with 
pleasure. “ I don’t exactly know which, but it’s one on 
you I’m certain sure. Glad I am, too, to see you a-goin* 
to the old place.” 

“ I am Major Hericourt’s daughter,” said Cordelia ; 
“and I intend to live again in Santa Fe. Is it much 
changed } ” 

“ It might be,” said Taylor doubtfully. “ It might be, 
miss. The fact is,” he added, “ I’m so busy a-drivin’ this 
ere stage, year in an’ year out, that I don’t have much 
chance to see what’s a-goin’ on in the town.” He drew a 
long breath, as if he regretted his lost opportunities, and 
then turned to his assistant. 

“I’ll just tell you what,” he said confidentially, “it does 


414 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


my heart a heap o’ good to see that air young lady again. 
She’s Major Hericourt’s daughter; and the Major was 
true blue, he was. He died like a soldier.” 

He cracked his whip as he spoke, and the horses dashed 
forward over the muddy road. The weather was cool and 
pleasant at first ; but, on the eighth day, a change set in. 
The sky gradually became overcast by gray, leaden clouds, 
and soon a few flakes of snow began to fall. It was the 
first time that the presence of winter had made itself 
apparent, and the air had in it the biting sting of the 
north wind. When morning dawned, the ground was 
thinly covered by a glittering coating of white, which 
grew deeper and deeper until the horses plodded through 
it with difficulty. Some anxiety was expressed by the pas- 
sengers in regard to the storm, which, after the usual halt 
had been made at noon, increased in violence. Through 
the heavy, dismal atmosphere the whirling flakes were 
borne along by the howling gusts ; and across the deso- 
late prairie naught could be seen but the drifting snow, 
from which rose, here and there, a bare and stunted shrub. 

“Darn me!” said Bill Taylor to his assistant, “it’s 
a-goin’ to be a regular buster, an’ no mistake. We’re not 
far off from Las Vegas, and we’ve only a few passengers 
aboard ; but, all the same, it will be no joke if we lose the 
road. If this goes on much longer, the stage will come 
to a stop. It can’t be dragged along by them horses. 
Why, the poor critters is a’most dead already.” 

Toward nightfall Cordelia and the Superior looked out 
at the dull sky and the blinding snowflakes, which the 
blast tossed madly and fantastically into white, feathery 
spray. Higher and yet higher rose the drifts, into which 
the horses sank up to their knees ; while over the prairie 
came the melancholy howl of the coyote and the shrill 
moan of the wind. 

The Superior, terrified by the intensity of the storm, 


DA YBREAK. 


415 


and the prospect of being lost on the prairie, sat shivering 
and silent, with her Hours tightly clasped in her hands ; 
while she tried now and then to murmur a few words of 
prayer. Cordelia said nothing, but waited patiently for 
the tempest to abate. She had heard of the stage-coaches 
being snow-bound ; and sometimes the passengers had 
been kept on the plain until assistance was forthcoming, 
or death ended their sufferings. 

“Surely,” she said to Taylor, “they must expect us in 
Las Vegas. They know when the stage is due. Will 
they not send out help to us ” 

“That they will, miss. But how can they find us on 
such a night as this } They might scream an’ scream, an’ 
so might we; but, with this devilish wind a-makin’ such a 
noise, we couldn’t hear each other. And it’s as dark as 
pitch. Besides, I am not sure we’re on the road. I’ve 
driven by compass all day.” 

The stage by this time could advance no farther ; for 
the horses were sinking with fatigue, and the banks of 
drifting snow made farther progress impossible. The 
passengers sat in gloomy silence, or else loudly express- 
ing their disgust and impatience at being obliged to pass 
the night thus, with the fierce wind beating against the 
sides of the stage, and icy particles of snow forcing their 
way in through the closely drawn curtains. 

“They be a-lookin’ for us,” said Taylor. “But they’ll 
never find us afore to-morrow, and p’raps not then. I’ve 
got lots o’ lanterns here if we could use ’em.” 

“ Could we not hang them somewhere on the stage } ” 
asked a passenger anxiously. 

“ In this wind } ” inquired Taylor, with some scorn. 
“Why, bless your heart, sir! they’d be blowed to pieces 
in half a second. There’s no help for it. I’m afraid. I’ve 
lost the road : the critters is used up, and here we’ll have 
to stay till mornin’, any way.” 


41 6 A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 

But, even as he spoke, his quick eye had caught the 
gleam of something which penetrated the darkness like a 
golden star. In a moment he had jumped from the stage 
with a quick cry, and, seizing a lantern, lighted it, and 
attached it to his whip, which he held aloft. The passen- 
gers noted the exclamation and the action. ‘‘ What is it ? 
What do you see, Taylor.?” cried several. ‘'Are they 
coming for us .? Can you make them see us .? ” 

“I saw a light, certain sure,” said Taylor, his voice 
trembling with excitement. “It was not very far off 
either. Bring more lanterns,” he added to his assistant, 
“ and try to keep the wind from blowin’ ’em out. And 
you, gents, can help us if you’ll all get out.” 

The men descended hurriedly from the stage into the 
snow; and, through the obscurity, they saw, as Taylor 
had done, a faint yellow glimmer, which presently was 
followed by others more distinct. 

“They are coming to help us,” said Mother Teresa, in 
a tone of relief, dropping her Hours upon her lap. “ I do 
not think I could have borne it much longer. In spite of 
the buffalo-robes, the cold is intense.” 

“ We shall soon be in Santa Fe,” said Cordelia cheer- 
fully. “ Help is at hand, and ere long we shall be safely 
housed within the convent.” 

She bent forward, and raised a corner of the curtain. 
The snow was falling less thickly, but the wind still blew 
like a hurricane across the prairie ; and the glow from the 
lanterns flickered upon the great, uneven drifts, which 
were piled almost above the wheels of the stage. 

“They are coming nearer,” she heard one of the pas- 
sengers say. “ I can see the lights quite plainly; and they 
have seen ours, doubtless. Ugh ! how cold it is ! I am 
buried to my waist, and I can hardly hear my voice for 
the wind.” 

“ Keep them lights a-goin’,” said Taylor encouragingly. 


DAYBREAK, 


417 


** They’re a-gettin’ on fast, they are ; and I should say 
they’d be here in less than half an hour. Can you hold 
out that long, gents } ” 

‘‘ That we can ! ” exclaimed another voice. ‘‘ The ladies 
within must be suffering from cold and fright. I would 
stand here until morning to relieve them.” 

“Well said!” cried another. “You were always a 
gallant old fellow. I say, though, how it does blow I ” 

A half-hour passed, during which Cordelia and the 
Superior talked together in a low tone ; while the men 
stood bravely without in the gale, and held aloft the lan- 
terns. They could hear at last the voices of those who 
had come to their aid, and see the outline of a large vehicle. 
A little later Taylor and his men advanced as well as they 
could to welcome the arrivals, and the two women sat and 
waited patiently. 

The vivid flash of many lanterns across the snow illu- 
minated the darkness ; so that Cordelia, peering into the 
night with hopeful eyes, could distinguish the forms of a 
number of men moving toward the stage. 

“Can you see any tiling.^” asked the Superior. “My 
eyes are too old to reach so far; and, indeed,” she added a 
little plaintively, “they are of no use to me at all without 
my spectacles.” 

“ I can see some men and another stage, I think,” said 
Cordelia. “The lights are very bright; and just now, as 
a ray fell upon one of the new-comers, I fancied he wore 
the dress of a priest.” 

“ Ah I ” said the Superior, with some animation, “ it must 
be the lay brothers of the Holy Cross who have come 
to save us. They are good, pious men, and live a life of 
devotion and sacrifice.” 

“I never heard of this brotherhood before,” said Corde- 
lia in some surprise. ‘‘ Has it been recently established 
here ? ” 


4i8 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


After you left, I think,” said the Superior; and she 
would have continued had not some one at that moment 
approached the stage. 

“Ladies,” said the voice of a passenger, “we are doubly 
fortunate. Not only has the stage-agent in Las Vegas 
sent a vehicle, and a driver who can show us the way, 
but some brothers of a holy order, knowing we were in 
danger, have left their warm houses on the outskirts of 
the town, and come on foot, part of the way, in order to 
help us. By to-morrow, at daybreak, we shall be on our 
way again ; and in the mean time they are making a fire, 
and getting some coffee ready. I came to suggest your 
going into the other stage if possible. It is provided with 
hot-water cans for your feet, and you will be much more 
comfortable there than here. It is but a few steps off, and 
we have made a rough path through the snow. Will you 
come } ” 

“By all means,” said Mother Teresa quickly. “ It must 
be near morning ; and, with another buffalo-robe, I think 
I could sleep soundly. Come, Cordelia. As this gentle- 
man says, we shall be more comfortable.” 

Her eyes were half closed as she spoke. 

“Yes, let us go,” said Cordelia. “It no longer snows; 
and soon, perhaps, the wind will cease also. I am not 
sleepy, but I am very cold ; and the warm stage will be 
welcome.” 

The two women descended, with the gentleman’s assist- 
ance, to the ground ; and, even in the path that had been 
made, the snow rose above their ankles. The night was 
still very black ; but here and there fell a ruddy gleam from 
the lanterns which the men carried in their hands, while 
a brighter light streamed from the fire that had been 
kindled. 

Mother Teresa leaned upon the stranger’s arm, while 
Cordelia followed. The other stage was but a few steps 


DA YBDEAIC, 


419 


distant ; and, as the Superior entered it, some one called 
loudly to her companion, who turned away, with an excuse 
to Cordelia saying he would rejoin her immediately. As 
he left her, another and taller figure emerged from the 
gloom, and approached her. It was one of the brothers, 
as she could plainly see ; for a man passing with a lantern 
let its rays fall directly upon a masculine form arrayed in 
a dress of coarse brown serge. The face of the stranger 
was not observed by Cordelia during that one flash of 
light ; but the figure drew near, and said gently, — 

“Let me help you. You are trying, I see, to reach the 
other stage. It is almost beside you ; and you will find it, 
I think, a pleasant exchange from your previous quarters. 
But is there not another lady with you 1 I was told there 
were two.” 

Cordelia did not hear the question : for, at the first tones 
of his voice coming through the darkness, a deadly faint- 
ness seized her ; and she felt about to sink to the ground. 
The lanterns near by seemed like vague, quivering specks 
of fire in the distance, and then disappeared entirely. She 
put forth her hand as if to save herself from falling. 

“You are overcome by the cold,” said the same gentle 
voice. “ Lean on my arm, and let me take you to the 
stage.” 

She roused herself by a great effort. She had been 
dreaming, doubtless, of the rude New-Mexican cathedral, 
from whose dim shadows a voice such as this had so often 
come forth. She had been dreaming, too, that the same 
tones had called her by name, and conversed with her. 
And then Fancy’s quick, incomprehensible strides had 
carried her back to the Professor’s drawing-room, where, 
sitting in the dusky twilight, she and Lament had fought 
the severest battle of their lives. Yet this chill and bitter 
wind, the cold snow lying in frozen whiteness before her, 
this figure wearing the garb of a holy order, were realities ; 


420 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE, 


for she felt them to be such. She stretched forth her 
arms with a little sob. 

Paul,” she whispered faintly. Paul ! ” 

At the sound of the voice and the softly uttered name, 
he started back with a cry, whether of joy or despair it 
would be hard to tell. Then he drew her toward him, and 
clasped her in his arms. 

‘‘You — you, Cordelia,” he murmured, in a tone that 
barely reached her ear. He stepped aside to where some 
of the snow had been cleared away, and the light from the 
fire did not reach them. 

“ Why are you here, Cordelia } ” he asked, holding her 
still in his arms, — “here on this snow-bound prairie?” 
His words seemed to be spoken with difficulty, and she 
felt tears from his eyes fall upon her cheeks. 

“ I go back to begin life again,” she said slowly, after 
a pause. “You have done so already,” she added 
simply. 

“ Let us begin it together,” he cried passionately. 
“Fate has brought you here. She is too strong for us : 
we cannot escape her. Stay with me now and always, 
Cordelia. Let us live for each other as well as for our 
faith.” He spoke wildly ; and his words, reaching her, as 
it were, from the wailing storm, pierced her like a sharp 
knife. 

“You wear a holy dress,” she said indistinctly; and he 
made no answer. For a moment both were silent, and 
no sound was heard save the men’s voices veiled by the 
sighing wind. Then Lament relaxed his clasp about Cor- 
delia’s form, and said in an altered tone, — 

“You must not stay here. Let me take you to the 
stage-coach, where you will find warmth and shelter.” 

She acquiesced mutely ; and they traversed together 
the short distance which separated them from the stage, 
that rose up a bulky mass in the obscurity. 


DA YBREAK. 


421 


There was no one within but a passenger and the Supe- 
rior, who, both worn out with fatigue, slept soundly. Bill 
Taylor, with the assistance of some of the men, was trying 
to extricate his stage from the snow-drift in which it was 
plunged ; while others were busy getting ready something 
hot to eat and drink. 

Cordelia stood by the fire, which was close to the stage, 
while Lamont threw a woollen rug around her. 

‘‘Mother Teresa, of Our Lady of Guadaloupe, is with 
me,” she said, pointing towards the stage. Her voice 
sounded cold and unnatural. 

“Mother Teresa,” he said vaguely. “Ah, yes! I re- 
member there were two ladies they said.” 

She stood so that the light from the fire touched her 
pale features. 

“ You are not changed,” he said calmly. “ Your trouble 
has made your face more peaceful, that is all.” 

“And you .^ ” she asked, awed somewhat by his simple 
words. “Turn your face a little, that I may see you more 
clearly.” 

He obeyed, and she saw that his dark eyes had in them 
a look of patient suffering such as she had never before 
witnessed. His cheeks were very pale ; and his long, loose 
dress of coarse serge, confined at the waist by a cord, made 
his erect form look taller than usual. The gown was wet to 
the knees with melted snow, and now and then he shivered 
as if with cold. Cordelia, as she gazed at him, felt an un- 
utterable sorrow rise within her. Presently his voice 
again broke the silence. 

“ I do not know why you are here with the Superior,” 
he said quietly ; “but this is neither the time nor the place 
to explain it. One thing, however, you can tell me. Have 
we met to-night, only to part on the morrow .? Answer me, 
Cordelia. Must I give you up again as I have twice done 
already } ” 


422 


A RIGHTEOUS APOSTATE. 


He seemed hardly conscious of what he said. ‘‘What 
answer can I give you now.?” she asked brokenly. “You 
have entered a holy order, and you wear its emblem. In 
a few days I shall become an inmate of the convent. We 
have chosen our lives.” 

“No, no,” he cried, his voice growing stronger. “No, 
Cordelia, I am bound by no vows, nor are you. The order 
I have entered I can leave to-morrow if you bid me. It is 
I now who plead with you, not you with me.” 

“ Have I the right to take you from the holy life you 
lead .? Ought I to renounce the one I intended to enter 
upon .? ” she asked sadly. 

“We will work together,” he cried eagerly. “Does not 
life owe us both something .? Ah, Cordelia ! the time is 
past when I thought it right to consider little things, and 
let the larger ones slip by me unseen. I did wrong to 
leave you when you gave me the precious gift of your love, 
but I am sensible now of my fault. Take me again to 
your heart and into your life.” 

He drew near to her, and looked into her face with 
passionate pleading. In the mean while the night was 
wearing quietly away; and the wind was dying with low, 
mournful accents. Many forms, those of the brothers and 
of Taylor and his men, passed back and forth ; but no 
attention was paid to the two figures, one wearing a sacred 
garb, who conversed together in the semi-obscurity. 

And then, at last, the gray dawn crept slowly up above 
the horizon, making visible the vast prairie, which stretched 
on all sides like a great white sea, with foaming billows 
rising toward the sky. 

Lament’s form stood out distinctly in the pale light. 

“Life is our debtor, Cordelia,” he said again : “we have 
given much, and now our reward is held out to us. Shall 
we refuse it .? Youth, indeed, I cannot offer you ; but my 
hands hold the autumn fruits of my experience, gathered 


DA YBREAK. 


423 


when the green leaves of spring and summer are on the 
decline. Will you take them } 

She did not answer. Joy was on her face, and yet over 
it passed a shadow of indecision. Then she stretched 
forth her hand, and laid it in his. 

So they remained for a while, both conscious of an in- 
definite feeling of rest and happiness, over which, however, 
a cloud still hung. 

“See,” he said finally, raising his head, and pointing to 
the eastern horizon. “ Day is breaking, Cordelia.” 

She followed his glance, and saw the first delicate crim- 
son streaks which herald the sun’s coming. Deeper they 
grew in color, and then, rising higher, cast a faint rosy 
reflection across the snowy waste. 



• * i1 . *. '' - . ^ 



A 



• ' * “fii • * 

"■ ' \ > ,/'■ •*'^v^^^ 

y * aJcJ 



' • . - 41 


.^nP'-'. 

•I* , > 'J 

, >'=’%,■• • ,V v'S^J *;tv 
SI >'• ,,»V-' -liii.*' ■■-AA 


r « 



If: \ ‘> G' s \ts 


f^' 


■4»-‘ 




« 


>'' ^ V'.. ^ 'r^^Ji 

‘ Vr, ‘‘V ^ V-.'' ^•<- ■ • ' ' * ^>''^*-n.'» ’ > ' 

, * • -t- *• Jr, . . ,K^.'* ^ifc2wB^->v7' -I *^V. ^ 




■ ■‘•ii ■'’ ^ -. itsiffe I ^i-A^ 

li •»*% * • t • ^ * wy t-c^ i ‘t.' ^ ’# 9t.Jfl m 

li OS^ i 1 s 0, ^ ' - k - '•’‘^»- 

ti^Jr ,^-'i"'''' . -- ''■.' '4.^^ ', v 

"-I-* *- . -A ••;■ ■■ c ; - • ■ : ' ■ . K:i .* '^' 1 ' 


Bi^‘ T / I'^ ipS •- .*» *-f; ■‘^™ .V 

■Bie ‘’CV^- ■^•'V V : - ■ a ■ •T'/JilK- - ''■■'" i •" 

' AIBmSj. 1 ri •■' . I*- '. * , .^9.4U 


>■'■. ■■'S’-- 


.» M>’' "-'' *• *'V.‘#‘^A.o, 


'■» r “; V it l.-^v ;:. lih ; ?V 

L'-*;^-. ■■.'•■'I 









y V v..<rj 

.-.T-A/i'-i' ■■•■■, S- : / !a ■ ‘ 

■f *>l. * '*• • ’l.^,*/' 


-I s ■ , • 

Tw’ ■ ■“■ 


. r; .y 4i^*l ^ >• H 

* -’JCSr ' ■•■ 

-: • ■■»/ . .,s. 



i 


> 


I 



t 




f 



i 

I 
$ • 

9 

r 



1 




